


The Ground Whereon He Walks

by StormDancer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grad Students, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, M/M, Niall Horan & Harry Styles Friendship, Oblivious Zayn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 05:32:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4048078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You could come home with me.” </p>
<p>“Yeah?” Zayn turns, waggles his eyebrows and leers. “You offering yourself as a rebound?”</p>
<p>“Hah,” Niall snorts, and glances down at the ground. “No, like. I’m going home to spend the summer, you could tag along, if you wanted.” </p>
<p>Zayn blinks. “To Ireland?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ground Whereon He Walks

**Author's Note:**

> This is, in effect, the result of me taking a trip to Ireland and needing to write a Ziall AU about it. So in that, it is an ode to Ireland, but also I only experienced Ireland as a tourist, so I'm sorry for what I'm sure are the many many inaccuracies. 
> 
> Also, I played fast and loose with Niall's backstory, I know; I wanted it to be set in a part of Ireland I had been to. And that's what fic is for, right? 
> 
> In sum, I know and own even less than usual. Hope you enjoy!

“This is pathetic, Zayn.”

Zayn looks up from the article he’s reading to look around the living room. It’s—well, okay, it’s a bit of a mess, because Zayn’s not exactly a neat person, but it’s not a disaster zone. And anyway, it’s not like Louis’s any neater, so he can stuff it. “Niall came over last week and organized a bit,” he protests, before going back to his article, petting the cat in his lap’s head absently. He needs to get this read before section in half an hour, or else he knows the students will ask about it. There’s a junior in this section who he knows will have it read, even though it’s not technically required, because she’s that sort of person.

“Why did he organize your apartment?”

“I don’t know, we were watching a movie and he just did, said it was bugging him or something.” If Zayn has to read one more page about sexuality in the Iliad, he’s going to kill someone. He doesn’t even like the ancients, he doesn’t know why he signed up to TA this class. Or, he does, because it’s because the only vaguely medieval lectures offered this semester were all in the history department and he leaves history to more date-oriented mind than his, but still. Fucking Greeks. “I have to read this, Lou—”

“And anyway,” Louis goes on, over his protest. To be fair, it’s not like Zayn would concentrate any better without him there. One day there will be enough bright-eyed undergrads willing to take a whole course on Medieval Islamic poetry, and Zayn will actually be interested in the subject he’s teaching, but he doubts that will happen before he finishes his PhD. “That’s not what I was talking about. It’s been two months.”

“Two months?” Zayn prompts, because he knows that’s what Louis wants him to say.

“Since Becca dumped you.”

That gets Zayn’s attention. He looks up from his computer, over to where Louis’s standing in the middle of the room, his arms crossed over his chest, his chin jutting out like he does when he’s getting ready for a fight. “What?”

“She dumped you for good two months ago, it’s time to move on.”

Zayn blinks. “I have.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Zayn repeats, firmly. Louis’s been his best friend since college, he should know that. Zayn’s good. He’s over her. Sure, it was bad for the first few weeks—there was a lot of drinking, and some crying on Louis and Niall’s shoulders, and some days when he didn’t leave the apartment, but he’s been good. He’s barely thought about her in the past week. It’s easier than he expected, really. Maybe that means something, that by the end he was just tired of their fights, of how they would be snapping at each other one moment then falling into bed the next, how he was constantly on edge.

But now that Louis’s said it, the ache starts in his heart again, a slow-flowing wound. Maybe it wasn’t all good, but god, he does miss her. It was two years, after all, two years of bickering over dishes and editing each other’s papers with his toes tucked under her thighs and the highs when they were so good together, even if those came with screaming matches. He’s allowed to mourn the loss of that for more than two months.

“Oh? So you bought new pans?”

“Well, no, but it’s not like I cook—”

“What about a new TV?”

“That’s a lot of money, I couldn’t just—”

“Fine. Have you at least had sex with someone else yet?”

“No,” Zayn admits, between his teeth. “But it’s not like I have time. I’ve got two sections to TA and I need to actually write my thesis sometime if I ever want to graduate and—” An alarm goes off on his phone, he glances at it. Shit. He has to get to LC. “And I’ve got to go. You can keep yelling at me later.”

“I’m only telling you how to live your life,” Louis retorts, and steps neatly out of Zayn’s way as he grabs his doc martens. He knows it’s maybe not how Yale would like its TAs to dress, but he doesn’t really have time, and anyway, Professor Cowell’s cool with it. He looked at his tattoos and gave him an approving nod, once, said it was like some old warrior tribe, so he doesn’t care what his students think as long as they listen. “I’ll see you at Anna Liffey’s tonight?”

Zayn waves a hand in assent, grabs his bag, and runs out the door. It’s still cold in New Haven, because no one seems to have told Connecticut that it’s technically spring, so he shivers in the leather jacket that was the first thing he grabbed as he walks quickly down Elm street, dodging Yalies out for dinner and a pack of admitted students clearly trying to find their way to the bookstore.

Louis’s wrong, he insists to himself, as he crosses into Old Campus, in all its neo-Gothic glory. There are a few freshmen on the benches around the quad, clearly deciding that they can make it spring with their thoughts alone, but mostly it’s just a rush of people trying to get to class. He is over Rebecca. Just because he hasn’t readjusted his apartment so she doesn’t fit in it, because he’s forgotten how to cook for one, it doesn’t mean he’s still hung up on her. He just—hasn’t figured out what pans he wanted, or how to rearrange his apartment without her.

And anyway, he wasn’t lying, Zayn concludes to himself, hurrying his pace up the marble stairs of LC when he can see some of his students a few steps ahead of him. He really doesn’t have time to brood on anything, because he has classes to teach and a thesis to write and that’s that.

When he puts it like that, he’s basically convinced himself. Enough that he can put it out of his mind as he slides into his seat at the head of the oval table, and wait for the undergrads to settle around it.

\---

Louis’s less easy to convince, though, and he’s not ready to let this go, as Zayn finds out after two hours wrangling know-it-all kids. “I’m just saying, if you haven’t slept with anyone for two months, there must be a reason. Right, Nialler?” he asks, gesturing over the bar to bring Niall into the conversation.

Niall finishes pouring a beer for a townie, then leans across the bar towards them. He’s got his customary grin on, and even though Zayn’s a bit exhausted by sections, he can’t help but smile back at him. Niall’s like that, always has been since Zayn met him after his first set here. Zayn’s still not entirely sure how that translated into him being one of Zayn’s best friends at Yale, but Niall’s like that too. Everyone’s his friend, from the guy Zayn’s pretty sure is a drug dealer to the musicians who play downstairs sometimes. And apparently Zayn counts as one of those ‘everyone’.

“It can’t be from lack of choice,” Niall agrees, and pushes another IPA across the bar towards Zayn. “No one can resist a face like yours.”

“See?” Louis insists, glaring at Zayn like he’s personally responsible for everything wrong in the world. “You aren’t over her. And you should be.”

“I am,” Zayn argues. He loves Louis, he does. But he is so done with this topic. He’s been tired for months, and his bed is too big for him to sleep properly in it. “I really am, Lou. It’s not her.”

Louis gives him a narrow-eyed, piercing look, but finally he nods. “Okay, fine, but still. You haven’t bought a new TV.”

“It’s not that.” Zayn shakes his head. He’s not sure how to say it. “It’s just…it’s stupid.”

“No it’s not,” Niall says. It’s quiet enough he must be able to stick near them for a while, polishing a glass and looking at Zayn like nothing he could ever say would be stupid.

“It’s not her, it’s just…I dunno, I don’t know what TV to buy, you know?” Zayn mutters. If he’d hoped it was too quiet for Louis or Niall to hear, he’s disappointed; Louis snorts, and Niall nods encouragingly. “And I just…I like being in a relationship. I liked knowing she was there.”

“Well, she was only there when you weren’t fighting, and you’re single now,” Louis says. “And you need to accept that, before you start moping again. It’s done! She’s gone, and good riddance, she was never good enough for you anyway. It’s time to move on.”

“I know,” Zayn tells his drink. He does, he knows that, but it’s never been that easy for him. Where is he supposed to move on to? “And I really am busy. If I can finish three chapters of my thesis by the end of the summer, I can graduate next year.”

“And having sex will help you with that.” Louis waggles his eyebrows. “Right, Niall? Helps with the concentration.”

“Sure does. So, Zayn, anyone strike your fancy?”

Zayn glances around, but honestly, he’s talking with the two most attractive people in the bar already. And Louis’s basically his brother, so, no. And Niall’s…Niall. “No.”

“Come on, you’re young, you’re hot, you’re a catch. And there are plenty of fish who aren’t Becca in the sea.”

“Yeah, but none of them are as cute as Niall, so what’s the point,” Zayn retorts. There’s just no one here he’d like in his bed, he thinks. No one who’d fill the spot Becca left.

“And not me?” Louis holds a hand to his chest, gasps dramatically.

“Nah, Niall’s the cutest.”

“Definitely cuter than you,” Niall inputs. He’s blushing a little, though; he’s oddly bad at taking compliments for someone who Zayn knows perfectly well is never lacking in someone wanting to sleep with him.

Louis huffs out a breath, but it distracts him enough that he lets the matter drop. He leaves soon after, has to get home to learn some lines, and Zayn should too, he knows. He wanted to get a few more pages done today, and he has grading to do. But he doesn’t, just sits on his bar stool and watches as Niall serves other people, chatting when he’s not helping someone else or watching the soccer game on the TV. He likes watching Niall in his element like this, with people all around him, trailing laughter in his wake.

Zayn also follows in his wake, when he ducks out for his break. “Need a smoke?” Niall asks. Zayn shrugs. He does, but he doesn’t want Niall to have to stand in the cold.

“I don’t have to—”

Niall’s already pulling a jacket on over his t-shirt. “Nah, could do with some fresh air.”

The street out back is quiet, with only hints of the city moving around them, mainly in the homeless man at the corner. Niall’s quiet too, just leans against the wall next to Zayn, close enough he can feel him but not so close he’s intruding. For someone as loud as Niall, Zayn’s always been amazed at how good he is at being quiet, too, at understanding when Zayn doesn’t want to talk.

“I am over her,” Zayn says at last.

Niall’s adam’s apple bobs. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like, I know we’ve broken up before, but it’s for good this time, I think. And like, that’s—it was bad, by the end. Worse than usual. It’s not that I’m hung up on her or anything. And I am busy. Just…” Zayn trails off, shakes his head. But it’s Niall, looking at him with his open, honest face. There’s something about Niall that makes Zayn feel like he can tell him anything, always has. Maybe it’s the bartender thing, maybe it’s the fact that Niall’s never seemed to judge anything Zayn’s said, maybe it’s just Niall’s sunshine, that sinks into Zayn’s bones. “Just, I dunno. She told me, this time, said I wasn’t what she wanted.” He lets out a long breath. That’s been sitting in his gut a while. How she’d been almost kind this time, instead of their usual knock out fights, how she’d touched his cheek and said it softly. “Said I didn’t know what I wanted.”

“Do you?” Niall asks. He’s got a way of asking that feels like it gives Zayn an out, that feels like he doesn’t have to answer, so he does.

“I dunno.” Zayn runs a hand back through his hair. “Like, the apartment just feels like—it feels like she’s still there, you know? Or it’s hers, or something. I can’t think about what I want when she’s still around.”

“Sounds like you need to get out.”

“And go where?”

“Home?” Niall suggests. Zayn blows out a breath of smoke. He could go home, back to his mother’s cooking and his sisters’ bickering and his father’s steadying hand. But that feels like running away. Feels like he’s a little boy who broke up with his girlfriend and has to run home to his parents. And anyway, he goes home for the weekend all the time, makes the forty-five minute drive up to Hartford. There’s no point to it.

“Or,” Niall goes on, apparently taking Zayn’s grunt for the dissent it is, “You could come home with me.”

“Yeah?” Zayn turns, waggles his eyebrows and leers. “You offering yourself as a rebound?”

“Hah,” Niall snorts, and glances down at the ground. “No, like. I’m going home to Galway to spend the summer, you could tag along, if you wanted.”

Zayn blinks. “To Ireland?”

“Yeah. It’d be new, get you out of your rut. You could work there too, if you wanted, we’ve got the internet and everything. It’s almost like we’re modernized.”

“But, like…” Zayn takes another drag as he sorts it out. Ireland. Europe. Niall. “Wouldn’t it be intruding?”

“Nah, me mum likes guests. And I know she’d love to meet you.” Niall grins, a bright flash in the night. “She always asks about my friends. My da too. And you know I always want you around.”

“I…” Zayn swallows, looks around at his comfortable surroundings. He’s settled in here, in the faux-medieval architecture and the flocks of undergrads mixing uneasily with the city and the way the sirens sound at all hours of the night. It was an easy jump from college at Amherst, from Hartford. It’s what he’s always known. “I’ve never been that far away.”

“Then no better time, yeah?” Niall’s still grinning when Zayn shoots him a sidelong look, his most encouraging look that makes Zayn really feel like he can do it. “You’ll love it, promise. Swear on me mum.”

Zayn takes a long breath. But Niall’s there next to him, and maybe Louis’s right. Maybe he is stuck, a bit, and maybe it is pathetic. Maybe it’s time for his own breath of fresh air, to remember how he is without Becca. “Yeah, then. Thanks.”

“Yes!” Niall pumps his fist in the air, his voice hooting out loud over the traffic a few streets away. “Ireland won’t know what hit it.”

“No it won’t,” Zayn agrees, stubs out his cigarette on the wall, then grabs Niall and pulls him into a hug. Niall comes easily, wraps his arms around Zayn’s shoulders and holds him tight. He smells like the bar, like smoke and sweat and beer, and it’s more comfortable than the apartment has been in weeks. “Thanks, man.”

“Never have to thank me, Zayn.” Niall’s breath is hot on his neck. Zayn can feel him take a breath in, like he’s going to say something—then he lets go, and steps back. “I’ve got to go back in, break’s over. You coming?”

“Should get home.” Zayn shakes his head. “See you tomorrow?”

“You better. Need my lucky charm if I’m going to play a gig,” Niall pokes at Zayn’s chest, beep beep boop, like they always do, ever since Zayn did it once as a joke when he was drunk and Niall’d nearly killed himself laughing. “Tomorrow, then.”

\---

Somehow, it’s that easy. Maybe it’s more of Niall’s magic, but the next two months fly by. Zayn mentions the trip to his mother, and the next moment she’s sending him money for tickets, because apparently his parents have just been waiting for him to ask to travel; his advisor nods and tells him to work while he’s there but to see the book of Kells and a bunch of other castles and sights and gives him the names of a few people at Trinity he can look up. Louis bitches about not being invited too, but he also hugs Zayn extra hard when he tells him, says it’ll be good for him and he’s proud of him.

So the next thing Zayn knows, he’s standing in the terminal of JFK, handing over the passport he’d finally gotten in the mail last week, after Niall’s constant urging of him to get one before the deadline came.

“Hey.” Niall nudges him with his hip as they settle down at the gate. They’d passed security pretty easily, though Zayn’s not stupid enough to miss the wary glances he’d gotten. But he can’t say he hadn’t expected it, and they’d waved him through anyway. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Zayn glances out the big plate windows, at the airplanes pulling up to the walkways.

“Nervous?”

“No.” Niall laughs, and Zayn echoes it. “Just, they don’t—like, I know Louis was messing with me, but can you just tell me the planes don’t do loop-da-loops?”

“No, they do,” Niall tells him, straight-faced for maybe a second where Zayn’s heart stops even though he knows what he’s doing before Niall bursts into laughter, clutching at his stomach. “Oh my god, your face!”

“Fuck you.” Zayn elbows his side, crosses his arms over his chest. So he’s a little nervous. He’s never flown before.

“No loop-da-loops.” Niall’s still laughing, but he pats Zayn’s knee anyway. “I promise.”

“No, I don’t trust you anymore, you’re—stop!” Zayn groans, shoving as Niall leans in, fingers skirting over his chest and sides, clearly going to tickle him. “We’re in public, see, I don’t trust you, you’re—hah!” Zayn can’t not fight back, so he gets his fingers on Niall too, digging them into his sides where his tank top’s loose around him.

It’s only when the woman sitting next to them clears her throat loudly enough to be heard over their giggles that they stop tickling. Niall’s somehow ended up draped over him, holding himself up against the pillar at their backs, and he’s close enough Zayn could count every freckle, every laugh line lingering on his face.

“I still don’t like you,” he tells Niall, because it has to be said. “You’re definitely not the person I’d like to be having my first plane ride with.”

Niall blinks, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, then, “You’re a liar, Malik,” he informs him, and shakes his head, shifts back so he’s not basically on top of Zayn. “I’m going to get snacks for the plane, you want anything?”

Zayn shrugs. He really is more relaxed now, though. “I’ll take some of whatever you get.”

“Yeah. Um. Going.” Niall shakes his head, ruffles his own hair, then shakes his head again. “Watch our bags?”

“I’ll guard them with my life,” Zayn drawls, and Niall laughs loud enough that the woman clears her throat again. Zayn shrugs when he sees her looking at him, mutters, “sorry,” and gets out his book from his carry-on. He can do this. He can.

\---

He can do this, it turns out, because he’s asleep basically as soon as they finish the terrifying experience of take-off, and he only wakes up when Niall’s shaking his shoulder lightly. “Hey, Zayn. C’mon, wake up.”

“Hm?” Zayn lifts up his head—and Niall’s right there, right above the shoulder he’d apparently fallen asleep on. “Oh, sorry.”

“No problem.” Niall’s arm is around his shoulders, and it’s a nice warmth, especially with how he’d forgotten to pull on a blanket before he went to sleep.

“Nah, shouldn’t have trapped you here, I—”

“It’s fine.” It’s the most snappish Zayn’s ever heard Niall, and he is so not awake enough to deal with it, but he raises his eyebrows questioningly.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Niall grins, and it looks like he really is okay, the brightness of it as good as the sunlight outside. “Just tired. Didn’t get much sleep.”

“You saying I’m not a good pillow?”

“You’re the best pillow ever,” Niall swears. “But hey, pillow. Thought you might want to see Ireland.”

“We’re here?”

“We’re landing soon. Look outside.”

Zayn’s still blinking awake, but he goes where Niall pushes him, towards the window. It still makes him gulp uncomfortably when he looks down, thinking about how high up he is—but he grabs at Niall’s hand when the plane hits a bump, and Niall doesn’t say anything when Zayn squeezes it, just squeezes back comfortingly. Then he really does look down.

“It’s so green,” Zayn breathes. He hadn’t managed to look out the window when they were taking off, but he can’t imagine Connecticut looks like that.

“Emerald Isle,” Niall chuckles, pressing against Zayn’s back so he can look too. “We don’t joke about that.”

“I know, but I didn’t actually…” Zayn trails off, but he can feel the smile in Niall’s breath on his neck, somehow, and he knows he gets it.

Landing’s not great, but Niall lets Zayn hold his hand again and manages to distract him with stories about the first time he flew and how he made his brother sing songs the whole way and he’s pretty sure the entire plane hated them, and he gets Zayn laughing so he hardly realizes the plane’s on the ground until the announcement comes on, something in what he thinks is Gaelic that then turns to English, welcoming them to Dublin.

“There,” Niall says, when the announcement’s over, grinning as he punches Zayn’s arm. “Not so bad, right?”

“Just because of the company,” Zayn replies. Niall’s cheeks go pink, and Zayn grins as he presses a kiss to them, pulls Niall in close for a hug. It’s a little awkward, with the armrest between them, but Niall holds him tight for a second before Zayn lets go to look back out the window.

“Okay, world traveler,” Niall goes on, when the fasten seat belt sign clicks off and everyone starts getting to their feet. Zayn follows suit, hunching while Niall edges his way into the aisle to get their carry-ons from above the seats. “So, we’re gonna have to take a train, couldn’t get anyone to pick us up even with you as temptation.”

“That’s fine.” Zayn yawns. The adrenaline of landing’s wearing off, and he’s tired. It’s about noon here, so it’s…seven, Connecticut time? Too early for him to be awake, anyway. He doesn’t know how Niall is, but he shouldn’t be surprised he’s a morning person.

“Good. Now come on, you need to properly set foot on Irish soil.”

Zayn mainly does as he’s told, follows the signs through customs, even when it separates him from Niall and he has to stand in line and try to remember Niall’s address to put on the customs card, then to the baggage claim, where Zayn wrestles their bags off the claim while Niall cradles his guitar. There’s a necessary delay, while Niall finds the closest chair and immediately sits down to examine the guitar, opening up the case and running his hands over the wood. Zayn’s pretty sure he doesn’t love anyone as much as he loves that guitar, from the way he touches it, his fingers gentle and sure. Zayn’s seen Niall with people he’s hooking up with before, and he’s never touched them like that.

So he waits patiently, yawning as he hooks into the airport’s wifi to text his parents he’s arrived safely, then Louis, because he worries even if he won’t say. By the time he’s done that and turned off his phone again, Niall’s apparently finished with his inspection, and has the case closed again and slung over his back.

“All set?”

“She’s fine,” Niall informs him. “She’s a good traveler.”

There’s a part of Zayn that wants to point out his guitar is not, in fact, a human, and travels as well as the airport services allow, but he’s seen how Niall looks at his guitar, how he looked that one time he’d had to get it repaired and kept twitching like he’d lost a limb. So he doesn’t, and just grins and keeps following Niall to the bus.

There’s a bus and a train and a blur of Irish accents and Gaelic and Niall telling him when to put in his credit card, and Zayn’s either not awake or dazed from travel, because it’s easy. He goes where people tells him, smiles when they tell him to, and follows Niall until he’s bounding out of his seat on the train, and tugging Zayn after him until they’re on the platform.

It’s a small station, and there’s something universal about that, even as it’s totally different—signs for Toilet and different symbols, and why did Zayn think it was a good idea to leave the US? He certainly won’t be thinking about Becca here; he’ll be too busy trying to figure out what anything is. Everyone around him sounds weird, even if he likes the sound of it, and they’re all so white even compared to New England, and Zayn feels like there’s a sign on him, pointing out how different he is. That he doesn’t fit here. That he’s out of his depth.

“All right?” Niall mutters. He’s craning around, clearly looking for a ride—he’d been texting on the train, Zayn had half noticed when he woke up from his doze. “Nothing to worry about. We’re all friendly.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Niall!” Suddenly, there’s another person draped over Niall’s back, and Zayn jumps away from him in surprise. He’s already half preparing himself to be attacked, because that’s what happens when Louis introduces himself like this, by the time he’s actually processed what’s happened.

There’s a boy clinging to Niall’s back like a koala except for the fact that he’s a good few inches taller than Niall, his hair long and loose. He’s got on tight jeans and a loose shirt that’s basically come off with his limbs wrapped around Niall’s chest, but he’s got nice arms from what Zayn can see, so he’s not really complaining.

“Harry?” Niall yelps, surprised, then, “What the fuck are you doing here?” But he’s grinning, as he reaches a hand back to pat at this Harry’s head.

“Picking you up,” Harry tells him. He looks to be squeezing awfully tightly, but what does Zayn know. Maybe this is some sort of Anglo-Irish greeting, because Harry’s accent is definitely English, not like Niall’s.

“Not that—let go of me, ya idiot.”

“But I haven’t seen you in so long!” Harry whines. Zayn’s not entirely sure whether to pry him off, or to start laughing. Given how Niall’s beaming even as he rolls his eyes, he thinks the latter.

“You can’t see me now, either,” Niall points out.

“But I can smell you.” The inhale is obnoxiously loud, clearly on purpose.

“You’re such an idiot,” Niall laughs, and digs an elbow back. Harry grunts, but doesn’t let go.

“Not getting rid of me that easily. I’ll hold on forever!”

“If you don’t let go, I can’t introduce you to Zayn,” Niall retorts, and Zayn holds up his hands.

“No, if he wants to stay as a leech forever, that’s his deal. I’m staying out of it.”

“Shut up and look pretty,” Niall shoots back. “I think I can get out!”

“What—”

“Do the smolder thing, that always works.”

“What smolder thing?” Zayn asks.

“The thing with your cheekbones and your eyes and—hah!” Zayn doesn’t know what exactly he did, but somehow Harry’s not on his back anymore, and Niall darts out, then around so Zayn’s between them.

“Wait, he can look even prettier?” Harry asks. He’s grinning, and there are dimples deep in his cheeks. It’s almost as charming a smile as Niall’s, all green eyes and a strong jaw and full, sensuous lips. “How’s that possible?”

“You wouldn’t think it, but he can.”

“Shut up,” Zayn mutters. He’s glad he doesn’t blush easily. It’s not that he doesn’t know he’s attractive, because obviously he does, but there’s something about Niall’s unrelenting praise that makes him want to blush.

“I’m Harry, by the way.” Harry holds out his hand, and Zayn takes it. He’s got big hands, calloused like you get from hard work, which Zayn wasn’t expecting. “Since someone was rude and forgot to introduce me.”

“I was getting there,” Niall protests, but he’s laughing. “Zayn, this is Harry. He came around one summer years ago and I haven’t gotten ridden of him since.”

“Excuse you, who was it that texted last?” Harry protests, but Niall ignores him.

“Haz, this is Zayn.”

“You didn’t tell me you were keeping hot friends secret in the US,” Harry tells Niall, but his eyes are still on Zayn. His voice is low and slow, habitually it seems, and there’s something in his smile that reminds Zayn of Louis, something with a hint of mischief. “I’d have come see you.”

“Niall didn’t tell me he was keeping hot friends secret in Ireland, either,” Zayn replies. Harry is hot, all tight jeans and broad shoulders and a nicely muscled chest shown under his mostly-open shirt, and Zayn doesn’t think he’s reading this wrong. He hasn’t been single so long that he’s forgotten what flirting is, even if it’s just casual.

“Maybe he was afraid we’d be too attractive together,” Harry muses, really quite pink lips curving into a smile that hints of knowing exactly what Zayn was thinking about him. “Could be dangerous.”

“Don’t mind danger.”

“No, I was just afraid you’d have too much hair together,” Niall breaks in. He throws an arm around Zayn’s shoulders, tugs lightly on the ponytail Zayn had thrown his hair into for the flight. “I have nightmares about that, all that hair.”

“Lies!” Harry scoffs, as Zayn sticks out his tongue at Niall and ruffles his hair. “He loves my hair.”

“Nah. Zayn’s is all right, but not yours.”

Harry crosses his arms, sticks out his lower lip. “Don’t make me tell the pigsty story, Niall James Horan. Because I will.”

“No you won’t,” Niall replies, evenly. “Because then I’d tell the story about the goats, and anyway, weren’t you here to do something?”

“Do—oh right, ride! Come on, then. No, let me get that.” He grabs Zayn’s suitcase for him, and it’s not like Zayn’s going to object to less stuff to carry. “I know how to treat a guest.”

Zayn lets Harry get a few feet in front of him, then leans down to whisper to Niall, “He’s not going to, like, steal my shit, right?”

“What, Harry? No, he’s kinda…unique, but he’s harmless mostly.” Niall glances at Zayn. “And he seemed to like you, anyway.”

“People do that, sometimes.”

“I know.” Niall grins, but there’s something off about it, something that isn’t a hundred percent. But then Zayn blinks, and it’s gone, and it’s just Niall’s usually bright blue eyes, bright as the sky above them, stretching on forever, feels like. “You’re brilliant, why wouldn’t they?”

\---

On the ride home, Zayn discovers that Harry has known Niall since they were ten, when Harry came to stay the summer with some sort of distant relative that Zayn had thought only existed in Victorian novels, then Harry managed to get the Horans to adopt him (“he’s like a stray puppy, can’t turn him out even though he probably has fleas,” Niall says) and has been coming back on and off since. He also learns that Harry’s a menace driving, although Zayn’s probably a little thrown by everything being on the wrong side of the road, and that he’s basically spent his time since graduating uni wandering and ‘finding himself,’ at which Niall rolls his eyes expressively at Zayn, who nods.

Still, Harry and Niall’s chatter is a good way to pass the ride, as Zayn stares outside. It’s the sort of city Zayn’s used to, in some ways, the same size as Hartford except actually nice, everything looking older, the small twisty streets and the stone buildings and that look like Zayn had always imagined for Europe.

“And why are you here?” Harry asks, as he takes a turn onto a smaller street. “Well, not Niall, I know why he’s here, but what brings you across the Pond, Zayn?”

“I…” Zayn trails off, glancing down at his hands. He’s just met Harry, he doesn’t want to share everything with him. And anyway, it sounds pathetic, when he says it, and he doesn’t want Niall’s friend to think he’s pathetic. “I mean, I…” he looks up, and Niall’s twisted in the front seat so he can look back at Zayn, all understanding and support. “I just, like, got out of a relationship, and I wanted a change for a while?”

“Cleansing is important,” Harry agrees solemnly. Zayn can’t tell if he’s bullshitting or not. “Was it a bad break-up?”

“It was a private break-up,” Niall interrupts pointedly.

“Oh, right.” Harry gives the rear view mirror an apologetic grin. “Sorry, I’ve just heard a bunch about you from Niall, feels like I know you already. I’m sure we’ll be best friends soon.”

Zayn has more doubts, but then again, everyone does seem friendlier here. “Yeah, sure.” Then he tilts his head, and grins himself. “You talk about me a lot, Nialler?”

“Talk about all my friends, don’t I? Oh look, we’re here!” Niall’s out of the car almost before Harry’s thrown the car into park. He hurries to the trunk—then backtracks so he’s opening Zayn’s door before Zayn can.

“Thanks?” Zayn raises his eyebrows, and Niall shrugs.

“Just showing Haz I know how to treat guests, too.”

“I feel very pampered,” Zayn assures him, and Niall snorts before he goes back to the trunk to get his guitar.

\---

Niall’s mum is just as tiny and ferocious as Zayn had expected from Niall’s stories, clearly ruling the house with a more iron fist than Zayn’s mum does. But she’s got the same warmth as her son as she pulls Niall into a hug that Niall’s only a little tense from as he pulls back from—Zayn’s heard a little bit about the history there, but not enough to read into that—then Zayn, bypassing his awkwardly outstretched hand completely. She immediately offers him food, then starts berating Niall for not coming home more often.

Niall laughs as he protests, then distracts her by insisting he show Zayn to the guest room.

“Used to be Greg’s room, but he’s moved out, obviously,” Niall explains, holding the door open for Zayn. It’s a very roomy sort of room, clearly redone since the oldest Horan son left, with a crisp white bedspread and a painting of a cathedral on the wall. “He’ll probably come round for dinner, and he better bring Theo. I need to see how he’s grown.”

Zayn nods, humming as he drops his bags on the bed. He’s seen plenty of pictures of Theo. Niall’s never so enthused or lit up as he is when he’s bragging about his nephew, except maybe when he’s got his guitar in hand.

“So, do I get to see your room?”

“Sure,” Niall says, immediately, backing up so Zayn can leave the room first. “But you’re gonna laugh. Think mum thinks I still might come back, she hasn’t changed it much. And like. Didn’t spend all my time here, ‘cause I was mainly at da’s, so it’s not, like updated.”

“Can’t be worse than my room at home,” Zayn replies. If there aren’t stacks of comic books in every corner and Frank Ocean posters on the wall, he’s doing better. “Bet you were a cool teenager.”

“You’d lose that bet. I had these messed up teeth, stuck with all the other band kids…”

“Like everyone didn’t love you.” Zayn can’t imagine a world where everyone didn’t love Niall, where he hadn’t made friends like breathing.

There’s a beat, then, “I mean, ‘course, I wasn’t an asshole so people liked me. Bathroom’s here, and here’s me.”

He opens the door a few down from Zayn, and again stands back to let Zayn see it.

It’s not that embarrassing. There are plenty of band posters on the walls, sheet music instead of comics, some soccer posters, a soccer ball in one corner. “It’s not bad,” Zayn protests, moving in. He sits down on the bed as Niall leans his suitcase against the wall, takes his guitar off his back and sets it carefully in a rack that’s clearly meant for it.

“Look at the posters,” Harry says, from the door. “Specifically—”

“Shut up, Harry.”

“Specifically,” Harry goes on, ignoring Niall as well as Niall had ignored him earlier, “The one to your left.”

Zayn looks over—and snorts out a laugh. “Bieber, Niall?”

“He was the biggest Bieber fan,” Harry informs him, laughing, “Had every one of his albums, didn’t you? Liked him even better than you did N’Sync.”

“Bieber’s the best,” Niall insists. He’s a bit flushed, but he’s only pretending to glare at Harry as he sits down on the bed next to Zayn. “He’s the man, and nothing will ever change my love for him.”

“Yeah? Baby, baby, baby,” Zayn sings at him, laughing, and Niall laughs back.

“That supposed to make me like him less, Malik?”

“Your voice almost makes it—” Harry cuts off, and Zayn can’t see why until he digs in his pocket to pull out his phone to look at a text.

“He does that,” Niall says, more matter-of-fact than apologetic. “Rude, he is.”

“It might be important.”

“Was it?”

Harry pauses. “It could have been!” He sticks his tongue out briefly, then grins at his phone and starts typing out a response, his tongue sticking out in concentration.

Zayn lies back on the bed, so he can look up to a ceiling covered with glow in the dark stars. He’d done that too, but he’s pretty sure Niall’s are in proper constellations. He’s such a nerd, Zayn muses fondly, for all he’s not at all.

“Hey.” Niall comes into view above him, smiling down at him. Brightest star in the sky, Zayn thinks idly, and smiles back. “Glad you’re here.”

“Me too.” He pokes at Niall’s nipples, then his chest, beep beep boop, then lets his hand fall back to his stomach. Niall laughs.

“Feeling better?”

“’course.” Zayn closes his eyes, breathes in. He’s probably romanticizing, but the air feels different here, newer. Or maybe it’s just that Niall’s bed is ridiculously comfortable, smaller than his back home, more manageable.

“Is he asleep?” Comes Harry’s voice, closer. “He’s probably jet-lagged, he should go back to his room and nap.”

“He can nap here.” Zayn feels the bed moving as Niall gets up, and he grunts and grabs at Niall without opening his eyes. He doesn’t want to sleep alone, and he doesn’t want Niall to leave. “What?”

“You should nap with me,” Zayn tells him.

Niall laughs, and detaches his wrist. “I’m still running on adrenaline, I’ll sleep later.”

“Fine.” Zayn pries his eyes open. He really isn’t that tired, he’s just comfortable and lazy. He should probably get work done anyway, see if his advisor’s emailed him anything or if he’s heard back about recs for the fellowship he was applying to. “I’m up.”

Both Harry and Niall are looking down at him, Harry with his brow furrowed slightly in what looks like confusion, Niall smiling, of course. But there’s something in their stances that match, something loose and relaxed.

“You can sleep. Know how you need your naps,” Niall says, but Zayn shakes his head and sits up.

“Don’t want to take up your bed. I can—I mean, if you two want to catch up, I have work I could do.”

“No, I need to hear stories from you too,” Harry protests. “I bet you have great stories about Niall. And I have to tell you mine! Oh, I bet there’s a photo album downstairs, I should get that. New Year’s 2005 really needs visual reference…” He wanders out of the room before anyone else has a chance to talk.

“Or we could nap,” Zayn tries suggesting again, but Niall shakes his head and reaches down to grab Zayn’s wrists.

“Nope, up and at ‘em, only way to beat the jet lag.”

“I don’t wanna,” Zayn whines, and when Niall gets a hold of his wrists he relaxes, making himself as much dead weight as he can.

“You’re not that heavy, I can still get—fuck!” Zayn lets him pull a little ways, then he tugs back. He’s got the element of surprise, so he flops back onto the bed and Niall stumbles and falls with him, catching himself last minute with his arms braced around Zayn’s head.

“See, you’re already lying down,” Zayn points out.

Niall swallows, and his gaze darts down Zayn, probably assessing his chances of getting Zayn up. “Nah,” he says at last. His voice is a little hoarse. “Don’t you want to hear embarrassing stories about me?”

“But you don’t get embarrassed, it’s less fun.”

“Oh, but Haz knows my worst. And my mum has some too, he’ll love to tell you.”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Zayn smirks when Niall rolls his eyes, then stands back up. Once his weight’s off Zayn, Zayn drags himself to his feet as well.

In the living room downstairs, Harry’s already pulled out a photo album and was paging through it, except now he’s texting again. “There you are! Thought you’d gotten lost in Niall’s bed.”

“It is a comfortable bed,” Zayn agrees, and sits down next to Harry where Harry gestures. Niall stays standing, hovering a little. “But I can sleep anywhere, ‘m not picky.”

“Yeah? Not picky about what bed you’re in?” Harry replies, the innuendo thick in his voice.

Zayn smirks back, the one he uses when he needs something out of someone, where his tongue peeks out between his teeth. Harry’s eyes flick down to it. It’s nice to know Zayn hasn’t entirely lost his game, even if he hasn’t properly flirted since the last time he needed to make Becca jealous. “Well, depends on the bed, doesn’t it?”

“Aren’t we supposed to be catching up?” Niall asks, plopping down on Zayn’s other side and reaching over him to punch at Harry’s thigh. “Not flirting with Zayn?”

“But he’s so nice to flirt with!” Harry protests, leaning away from Niall, and thus Zayn. “I’m being friendly!”

“Yeah, very,” Niall mutters. Harry’s response is a lot less important than looking at Niall, who’s looking at his knees while Harry returns his attention to the album.

Zayn nudges him with his hip. “Okay?” he asks, when Niall looks at him.

Niall shakes his head, like he’s clearing it, and when he does he’s smiling again, and everything’s reset. “Yeah, fine. Sorry, maybe I am tired.”

“I told you we should have napped.”

“But then you couldn’t have heard about the time with the leeches!” Harry’s arms flail wildly enough Zayn has to dodge. “So we were sixteen, right, and—”

“No, I’ve changed my mind, you should go to sleep,” Niall shoves at Harry’s shoulder. “And not listen to this idiot.”

“But I want to hear about the leeches!”

“I didn’t ask him here just to hear all the embarrassing shit I got up to as a kid,” Niall tells Harry, instead of Zayn. “And you don’t have to humor him.”

“You’ve had plenty of chances to come home with me, I’m sure my sisters would have loved to humiliate me,” Zayn retorts, and leans over Harry so he can look at the album. “What’s this about leeches?”

Harry starts the story, and Zayn tries to follow, he does, but Harry’s really slow at talking and Zayn’s not sure, but he thinks Harry’s the one losing the thread of the story, not him. He sort of expects Niall to jump in, honestly, because Niall’s a great storyteller, vivid and excited and lit up, so when he doesn’t Zayn twists again. He’s just looking at Zayn, his eyes bright.

“Maybe you should sleep,” Zayn suggests, quietly. Harry’s saying something about a church. Last time Zayn had followed it, he thought they were in a lake, so he’s not sure how they switched.

“No, I’m good.” Niall shifts, fidgeting on the chair. He’s never been good at sitting still. “But, you’d want me to come home with you?”

“Of course.” Zayn doesn’t get why that’s a question. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Just…didn’t want to intrude.” Niall shrugs.

“You’re never intruding. You know that.” Zayn doesn’t think he’s ever not wanted Niall around. Or no, that’s a lie, because Zayn needs his alone time. But he wants Niall around more than most people. And maybe it’s because of this, because he notices the boundaries Zayn sets around himself and lets him have them, even as he wafts through on his warmth and sunshine. Which is a stupid metaphor, but he thinks Niall would appreciate it.

“If you two are just going to stare at each other all day, I’ll take my stories elsewhere.”

Had they been staring? Zayn hadn’t noticed. But Niall just snorts. “It’s ‘cause you’re such an awful storyteller, you’re ruining it. The good part, Zayn…”

It’s much easier to listen to Niall, Zayn thinks. Maybe because he’s used to it, or maybe because it’s Niall, and that explains more than it should.

\---

They go to the pub after a raucous dinner that’s exactly what Zayn might have expected from Niall’s family, after Niall’s mum invites a few of his cousins over to his welcome home dinner. Niall keeps shooting Zayn sidelong looks, like he’s worried he might be overwhelmed, which is only more proof that Zayn needs to take Niall home with him sometime, because this is nothing compared to when his whole family gets together. It’s nice, though, to listen to the banter, even if sometimes it takes concentration to hear through the accent.

The pub is more of the same. Zayn’s been out with Niall, so he knows what to expect, how everyone greets Niall with a cheer and he’s mobbed. But Niall wraps a hand around his shoulders, keeps him close, introduces him to every group of people who come up with a grin like he doesn’t know how anyone could ever think Zayn didn’t fit amongst all these burly Irishmen. Harry’s there for a while, but then he drifts away, to people he knows, or maybe to text like he’s been doing constantly.

“So, what do you do?” A big man Niall introduced with a shout as Bressie asks. He looks a little like a teddy bear, and he’d hugged Niall like one, until Niall had pounded on his shoulder to ‘let me go, you big oaf’.

“I’m a grad student.” Zayn’s found that that’s the easiest thing to say, because no one wants to hear about medieval Islamic texts and how they relate to Christian romantic poetry of the same period.

“In what?”

“Literature.” Bressie opens his mouth, and Zayn just shakes his head. “Trust me, you don’t want to hear about anything else, it’s boring.”

“It’s not!” Niall’s suddenly back at his side, a pint in one hand, the other arm resting on Zayn’s shoulder. Zayn doesn’t bother protesting. He’s always been more amused than anything by how Niall likes to do that, because he’s not enough taller than Zayn for it to work well. “He’s the smartest person I know,” he tells Bressie.

Zayn ducks his head. “I’m not.”

“You are. Know everything, don’t you?” Niall pokes at his side, and Zayn winces away, nearly slopping his beer. “Tell him about your thesis. No one loves talking about religion more than the Irish,” he adds, laughing.

“Maybe I really shouldn’t then,” Zayn retorts.

“Nah, you—” There’s a cry, and the three of them turn to where the back door’s opened, and a group of people are trooping onto a makeshift stage. “Really?”

Bressie holds up his hands, but he’s laughing. “They were scheduled!”

“Horan!” A big voice booms across the room, and it takes Zayn a second to identify it as the weedy little man sitting on the stage. “You dare show your face here again?”

Niall laughs again. “Just got home!” he calls back, and doesn’t let go of either Zayn or the pint as he pushes forward towards the little stage. “What you going to do about it?”

“Someone hold my guitar,” the man retorts, handing his guitar off, and for a second Zayn’s worried, but then he’s grabbing Niall into a hug of his own. “Good to see you, laddie.”

“Good to be back,” Niall mutters, soft enough probably only Zayn hears it. Then he lets go of the man, who turns his gaze to Zayn.

“And who’s this?” he demands. “You bring an interloper in, Horan?”

“This is Zayn,” Niall replies, grabbing at Zayn’s waist to bring him closer, “He’s a friend staying with me. From America.”

“Oh, an _American_ friend,” the man drawls, “Well, Zayn, I’m Joseph. You look out for our boy?”

“Of course.” Zayn replies, honestly, and ruffles Niall’s hair. “Got to make sure nothing bad comes to him, yeah?”

“I don’t need taking care of,” Niall protests. “And anyway, I take care of Zayn, right?”

“That too,” Zayn agrees, grinning at him. Niall does, in so many ways, in more ways than he can ever thank him for.

“Hmph,” the man snorts, then turns back to Niall. “So, you coming up with us?”

“Nah, don’t have my guitar.” Niall shakes his head regretfully. “Besides, it’s been an age since I played these songs.”

“An Irishman’s fingers don’t forget,” Joseph informs him sternly, but he just hops back up on stage, grabs his own guitar.

“What sort of songs are those?” Zayn asks, as Niall draws him back a little.

“You’ll like this,” is all Niall tells him. “Oh, Haz grabbed a table. Let’s go.”

They do, and Zayn acquires another beer from somewhere, something rich and dark that settles nicely in his stomach. Niall keeps chatting with people as the band finishes setting up, and Zayn occupies himself chatting with Harry, about this and that. It’s him who explains that Joseph’s who taught Niall to play guitar, who got him his connections at the School of Music, even if, as Harry insists like Zayn would disagree, Niall could have done it on his own.

Then, without introduction that Zayn can tell—there’s music. It’s a quick beat of a jig, or something; something that has Zayn’s feet tapping, that has everyone in the pub turning to cheer along with Joseph as he sings.

Zayn can’t help laughing delightedly, at that and at how Niall’s face lights up as he yells along, how brightly he grins at Zayn. “See?” he ducks his head in close, so he’s close enough for Zayn to hear him, right at his ear. “Told you you’d love it.”

“You do know me,” Zayn agrees, and Niall lifts up his face, so he’s right there again, his whole face shining like he gets, like he could hold the sun in his smile. Zayn’s mouth is dry, suddenly, and he licks at his lips to wet them.

Niall bites at his own lip, then starts, “Zayn—”

“So we have a problem here tonight,” Joseph says into the microphone, “There is someone here who should be on this stage, but isn’t. What do we say to that?”

“Boo!” The crowd yells back.

“What?” Zayn asks. Niall’s hand’s on his shoulder, like it’s been so many times before.

“So, Mr. Niall James Horan, get your arse up here and give us a song!” Joseph yells, and the sound of Niall’s name makes Niall jump, his hand falling from Zayn’s shoulder.

“Fine, you wankers!” he calls back, and stands up. Zayn watches as he hops onto the stage, sits down on the stool that appeared out of nowhere, and leans in to consult with the rest of the band. Of course he knows this sort of music. Zayn’s only heard him play the poppy stuff he prefers, but he’s not surprised this is what Niall came from.

“So?” Harry asks, scooting over on the bench so he’s next to Zayn. “Enjoying your first Irish pub?”

“Yeah.” Zayn glances around. “They’re all very…friendly, aren’t they?”

“Isn’t it great?” Harry grabs at his phone, grins at it, and types something out.

“Who are you texting? Girlfriend?” Zayn asks. It’s none of his business, and if Harry tells him to fuck off he will, but something aches in him when he sees Harry smile at his phone like that. He misses having that person, who he thinks of first when he hears a joke. That person who just seeing them, just remembering they exist, makes you happy. He hasn’t had that for—for longer than he’s been broken up with Becca, he knows.

“What? No. I don’t really do girlfriends, or boyfriends, for that matter.” Harry puts his phone away, and tugs at his hair, in a clearly nervous gesture. “It’s my mate, Liam. He’s having—like, he’s going through some shit, back home, so I’m helping.”

“Okay.” That was said a bit quickly for Zayn to properly believe him, but then Niall’s talking, and Zayn doesn’t really care anymore.

“So,” Niall says, into the microphone, “It’s been a while, and I’m not sure if I remember anything, but here’s the one song I’ve never forgotten.”

It’s almost achingly sweet, is the thing, Niall’s voice and his fingers on the guitar, soft and lovely in a way Zayn never really forgets Niall can be, but he overlooks in place of his brilliant smile and laughter. “Black is the color of my true love’s hair,” he sings, looking at his guitar rather than the audience, as the rest of the band is soft in their back up. The whole pub’s quieted, for Niall’s voice to fill it, him and the ache he has for whoever his true love is. “The sweetest smile, the gentlest hands.”

It’s lovely, and painful, and Zayn can’t look away from Niall as he plays. “I love the ground whereon she stands,” he ends, trailing off, “I love the ground whereon she stands.”

There’s a hush, as the whole pub breathes in—then cheers, and Niall blushes as he grins broadly, accepts the pint handed to him and downs half of it.

“Brilliant, isn’t he?” Harry asks. Zayn only then remembers he’s there, remembers anyone but Niall exists.

“Yeah. Always is.”

“Did you like that song?”

“Yeah, ‘s beautiful.”

“That—Niall!” Harry cheers as Niall settles back onto the bench on Zayn’s other side. “I was just saying to Zayn, it’s interesting that’s the song you remember.”

“It’s a good song,” Niall retorts, taking another swig of his beer. “You like it?” he asks Zayn.

“Of course. It was beautiful.”

“I like the lyrics in particular,” Harry breaks in, “Black haired people are great, aren’t they Nialler?”

“Um, yeah.” Niall’s fingers drum on the table, like he wants the guitar back. “I’ll get another round, yeah?”

“Let me,” Zayn offers, because he doesn’t think he’s paid for one yet.

“I’ll go with you,” Harry offers, “Don’t want to let you loose in here, those cheekbones could be dangerous without a proper escort.”

“Yeah?” Zayn chuckles. “You going to protect me?”

“Sure.” Harry glances at Niall, who’s staring at his beer. “We’ll find you again, okay, Niall?”

“Yeah. Take good care of him, Haz. Don’t want any barfights, hear?”

“But I like barfights,” Zayn whines, not entirely joking, and lets himself be led away.

It turns into a bit of a blur after that. He buys a round, then Harry does, then Bressie, then there are more drinks pressed into his hands and he’s laughing with Niall’s friends, telling them about the overbred undergrads he’s taught, and it’s easy until it’s not.

He glances around, and like usual, Niall’s bottle blonde head’s easy to find, in the midst of the biggest group of people. He’s shouting something about Derby at the man next to him, who’s cheerfully shouting back, but when he sees Zayn he cheers. “Zayn!” he yells, and grabs at his hand to tug him in. “This is Zayn,” he announces, “He’s the best mate ever.”

“Thanks, babe,” Zayn laughs, and when Niall throws his arm around his shoulders he wraps his own around Niall’s waist. He’s swaying a little, which means he must be really drunk. He’s always had an Irish tolerance. He leans in, so he can talk just to Niall. “I’m going to head back, I think.”

He doesn’t mean to make Niall come back with him—he can find Harry, or get a cab, if there are cabs here—but Niall nods. “We’re off!” he declares, to a crowd of boos. “I love you all!”

“Pretty sure they all love you too,” Zayn chuckles, leading Niall away. Niall throws out a few more comments to various people as they pass, but he never resists Zayn’s arm around him, so they get outside fairly quickly. It’s only once they’re outside, that the flaw in his plan presents itself.

“Um…are there cabs?” he asks. He can’t drive here, and Niall’s definitely not sober enough. Maybe Harry, but he doesn’t know where he is.

“Harry can drive us. He’s the best,” Niall tells Zayn, as Zayn rolls his eyes. “Best best mate.”

“Thought I was the best,” Zayn replies. He doesn’t have Harry’s phone number, and he doesn’t want to text without wifi anyway, doesn’t have the minutes for it. “Can I have your phone?”

Niall hands it over. “You are,” he says, open and honest like he only gets when he’s drunk. People always think he’s honest all the time, but Zayn knows better, because he’s not bad at hiding himself. Niall just smiles and laughs, and never lets anyone see inside. Except when he’s drunk like this, his head resting easily on Zayn’s shoulder. “You’re the best. Don’t know why you don’t want people to see it.”

“I do. Passcode?”

“Eight-four-three-six,” Niall reels off.

“Shouldn’t tell me that. I might mess with your phone,” Zayn tells him idly, as he opens the phone. Harry’s number is on top, over Mum, Da, and Zayn. He types out a quick text, then shuts the app before he sees any of the texts. If Niall lets him have his boundaries, he’ll give Niall his.

“Nah, you wouldn’t do anything bad.”

“Hey.” Zayn gives him an affronted look. “I could! I’m Louis’s best friend.”

“You wouldn’t,” Niall insists, shaking his head with the greatest of certainty. “You’re too nice.”

Zayn grunts, crosses his arms. “’m not nice.”

“You are.” Niall laughs at Zayn’s frown, pokes at his stomach. “Yer not nearly as mysterious as you think you are, Zaynie. I can see right through you. And you’re sweet all the way through.”

Zayn can feel his cheeks heating. “I could still mess with your phone,” he mutters.

“But it’d be a laugh.” Niall pauses, swallows. It’s darker here than in New Haven, fewer street lamps, so the moonlight catches in his hair and turns it paler. His skin’s pale too, the freckles standing out on his cheeks, the hair at his chest that peeks through the top of his Henley just a shade darker. “And I know you’d never do anything that’d actually hurt me.”

His voice is deeper than usual, the accent thicker, probably from being home. “’Course not,” Zayn says, because it’s obvious. He’d never let anything hurt Niall.

“So we ready to go?” Harry interrupts, bursting out of the door. When he sees them, he stops. “Are we?”

“Yeah.” Zayn nods. Niall nods a second later.

“Zayn’s old and needs his sleep,” he tells Harry, grinning at Zayn’s scoff.

“I’m not even a year older than you!”

“It’s okay, older men are hot,” Harry retorts, getting into the front seat. Zayn’s about to protest, because Niall’s certainly too shit-faced to drive, before he remembers that no, Harry’s getting into the driver’s side. And anyway, Niall gets in the back with him, instead of next to Harry.

“I see how it is, I’m just the chauffer,” Harry complains, as he pulls out. Zayn hadn’t realized it while he was going, but as soon as he sits down it feels like the jet lag catches up to him all at once. Niall’s not always the best pillow, because he’s fidgety, but apparently Zayn’s decided to ignore that this trip, because he leans over so he can rest his head on Niall, close his eyes.

“Yeah, that’s all,” Niall agrees. “Don’t keep you around for anything else.”

“Clearly.” It’s nice to drift like this, with Niall’s fingers drawing circles on his arm, Niall’s scent filling his nose. Niall’s just so comfortable, like his oldest sweater that he wears when he needs to just feel good. “Ni, about Zayn, is he—”

“I definitely don’t keep you around for gossip,” Niall doesn’t let him finish his sentence. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me Claire was engaged?”

“She’s engaged?” Harry gasps, the car swerving, and Zayn murmurs his discontent.

“Don’t crash, fucking Christ.” Niall’s hand lands on his head, just resting there for a second, until then it starts to card lightly through his hair. Zayn’s not normally one to get his hair messed with, but Niall’s good with his fingers. “Yeah, she’s engaged. Aren’t you supposed to be good at gossip?”

“I’ll have you know I’m excellent!” Harry protests, and Zayn listens to them bicker with half an ear the ride back, until Niall’s shaking him gently.

“Up and at ‘em, Zaynie.”

“You need to stop waking me up,” Zayn mutters, but he lifts his head off of Niall’s shoulder. Sure enough, they’re back at the house, but Harry’s not there. “Where’s Harry?”

“He went in.”

“And you didn’t?”

It’s hard to tell in the dark, but it looks like Niall blushes. “Nah, you looked too sweet, asleep.”

“Stop calling me sweet.” Zayn yawns again, unbuckles and slides out. “You should have just woken me up.”

“But you are sweet,” Niall retorts, loud enough to remind Zayn that he’s still drunk. He claps a hand over his mouth.

“Quiet,” he warns. Niall nods.

“You are sweet,” Niall repeats, quieter, as he unlocks the door, holds it open for Zayn. “Becca never deserved you.”

“What?” Zayn had been taking off his boots, but he turns to look at Niall, at that. They haven’t mentioned Becca in a while, Niall probably too tactful when it counts.

“No one’d deserve you, not proper, but she wasn’t good enough.” Niall’s kicked off his own shoes, hung his jacket on a peg, so Zayn follows suit, slowly. Niall’s never said any of this before. Never said a word against Becca, except when Zayn was in the throes of his break up and needed someone to rant at.

“I thought you liked her.”

“I did, great girl. But she didn’t deserve you.”

Niall’s clearly hit his sloppy, affectionate stage of drunk, where everyone he sees is the thing he loves best in the world. It’s one stage before he collapses, so Zayn smiles, to humor him, and gets an arm around his waist to help him up the stairs.

“I’m not, like, something to deserve.”

“You are, though.” Niall lets him lead him up the stairs, but he pauses in front of his door. “You’re worth deserving, and you never seem to know it. But you’re just, you’re amazing.”

“And you call me sweet.” Zayn grins, and kisses his cheek lightly, because he knows it’s mainly that Niall’s drunk but it still is sweet. “Get some sleep, babe.”

“You could—” Niall cuts himself off this time, shakes his head. “Yeah. You too.” He disappears into his own room, and Zayn goes to his, changes into his pajamas pants, then heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth, because he doesn’t know how long it’s been since he has and he’ll regret it if he doesn’t. He leaves his toothbrush by the sink. It’s nice. It’s weird, really, because he’ll be here for months, and it’s—it’s nowhere he knows. He doesn’t recognize anything, but he feels like he can breathe. Like he can just be, in a way he can’t at home, when the stress of work and Becca’s ghost is there. None of that is here.

He’s smiling as he washes his face, then leaves. Niall’s waiting outside for his turn, in sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt. His face is still flushed, but he looks steadier already, and Zayn has to grin at him as he passes.

“Hey,” he says, turning. Niall turns around too, in the doorway of the bathroom. His eyes flick down, to Zayn’s torso. It’s weird, how he’s never seen Niall like this, but when they have crashed together it’s always been after a night out when neither of them had the energy to get into pajamas. He’s not even sure Niall’s ever seen the tattoos on his sides, which is probably what he’s surprised about. “I dunno if I’ve said, but—thanks. For having me. This is already better.”

Niall’s gaze comes back up, to Zayn’s face, and he shrugs. “’s nothing. Just glad to help, you know?”

“You do.” Zayn’s not sure he’s ever told Niall this, or hasn’t impressed on him just how much. “You made—like, the whole Becca thing, but just like, everything—better.”

“Fucking hell.” Niall runs a hand through his hair, but he’s smiling too, almost bashful. “You—” He looks around, shakes his head. “Anything I can do, Zayn. Now get some sleep.”

“Yeah.” Zayn can feel the exhaustion in his bones, despite his naps. “Night.”

“Night,” Niall agrees, and Zayn drags himself back to his door. He catches a glimpse of Niall when he turns to open the door. He hasn’t gone into the bathroom yet, hasn’t even moved, is just leaning against the door with his head tilted up and his hands in his hair, muttering something to himself. He must feel Zayn’s gaze on him, though, because he turns his head to meet his eyes, and gives him a smile.

If Niall’s smiling, everything’s okay, Zayn decides, and goes into the room. He’s asleep almost before he hits the pillow.

\---

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps, but he actually feels refreshed when he wakes up, like he’s slept for forever. The bed’s ridiculously comfortable, and it’s small, small enough that it doesn’t have that feeling that another person should be there. Which is a feeling Zayn knows he needs to get over, soon, because Becca’s gone and he doesn’t even really want her back, but it’s nice not to worry about it, anyway. The sun’s filtering through white lace curtains, the mattress is soft, there’s the soft noise of laughter from downstairs, and there’s the scent of eggs in the air.

It’s the eggs that gets him up, in the end. He’s a guest, so he doesn’t go downstairs in pajamas like he’d do at home, no matter how good the food smells. Instead, he drags himself to the shower, scrubs away the grime last night, then puts on jeans and a tank top, which is presentable enough. He’s too lazy to do his hair, just pulls it back into another ponytail, and goes downstairs.

He follows the laughter to the kitchen, and then has to pause in the doorway. It’s too picturesque a scene, right out of, like, Laura Ingalls Wilder. There’s Niall’s mum at the oven, cooking what looks like eggs and bacon, a man who Zayn recognizes from Niall’s pictures as his brother hovering next to her, clearly ready to steal some food. And Niall at the table, a blonde, bright-eyed boy on his lap, both of them laughing hysterically.

He must make some sort of sound, probably at just how picturesque it is, and Niall glances up. He grins when he sees Zayn. “Zayn! Didn’t know when we’d see you.” He shoves back from the table, lifting the toddler onto his hip.

“Morning.” Zayn covers his yawn with the back of his hand. “Hope I didn’t keep you from eating?”

“Of course not, food’s just about ready,” Maura informs him. “There’s eggs, and it’s turkey bacon, Niall said that’d be better?”

“Yeah, thanks.” He glances at Niall. “Didn’t have to do that.” He’s used to just not eating pork, has perfected the excuses so as not to make a scene. Niall shrugs, does the little smile he gets when he’s let something of himself out.

“Of course we did, need to have fed you. Greg, why don’t you set the table, if you’re in such a hurry to eat?” she orders, and Greg holds up his hands in surrender.

“Yes, ma.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s Greg,” Niall nods at him, who nods back at Zayn affably. “And this,” he bounces the boy in his arms, “Is Theo, who’s the most brilliant kid ever. Aren’t you?”

The boy nods. He doesn’t look bashful, particularly, but he’s holding tight to Niall, clearly taken aback by this new person in his grandmother’s home.

“This is Zayn,” Niall tells him, “He’s a friend of mine. Can you say hello?”

“Hewwo,” Theo mutters, ducking his head into Niall’s shoulder.

“Sorry, he can be shy,” Niall bounces him again. “Don’t worry, Zayn’s cool.”

“Hi, Theo.” Zayn smiles at him, when he peeks out from the nape of Niall’s neck. “Nice to meet you. Your uncle’s told me a lot about you.”

The boy looks at him with big blue eyes, the same color as Niall’s. Zayn keeps smiling. This isn’t his first rodeo. “Like, he told me you like tigers. Was he lying?” Theo shakes his head. Zayn leans in. “Me too. Even got one here.” He points to his arm.

Theo’s eyes widen, and he reaches out to touch the ink. “Tiger!” he cries, and laughs, clearly delighted. “Unca Niall, look!”

“Yeah, he’s got a tiger on him, doesn’t he?” Niall agrees, winking at Zayn. He tries to keep a hold of Theo for a moment, but clearly Theo’s too interested in the tiger, grabbing at Zayn’s arm. “Do you mind?”

“Nah, give him here.” Zayn settles Theo on his own hip, laughs as Theo’s eyes get even bigger as he notices the rest of the ink on Zayn’s arm. “Want to see them all, Theo? Do you know what this one is?”

He and Theo go through his arm slowly, pointing out each one, Zayn looks up by the time they get to the snake, to make sure he’s not doing anything he shouldn’t, but Greg’s been put to work, and Niall’s leaning back in his chair, just watching Zayn and Theo. He’s got a weird look on, but Zayn thinks it’s not unpleased, and there’s a smile in it. Maybe incredulity, which Zayn takes a little offense at. He’s got plenty of cousins, he knows how to deal with kids.

By the time Maura announces breakfast’s ready, Zayn’s apparently been accepted, because when he tries to give Theo back to his father to eat he grabs at Zayn’s neck.

“Think you’ve got a fan,” Niall teases, as Greg tries to convince Theo that he should really sit with him.

“I’m fine with him, really,” Zayn tells Greg, juggling Theo to his other hip so he can try to sit down. “Yeah, my charm’s irresistible, you know?”

“You know us Horan men, always a sucker for a pretty face.” Niall retorts. “Come on, Theo, don’t you want to hang out with your awesomest uncle?”

Theo bites his lip, clearly torn, but then he nods, and Zayn’s allowed to hand him over. “It’s okay,” Niall tells Theo, very seriously, “I know it’s hard to think about anyone else when Zayn’s around.” He glances up at Zayn, and his smile’s different than usual, not his usual beaming grin but something smaller and softer.

“Yeah, so many distracting tattoos,” Zayn laughs, because he can’t think of anything else to say, and it seems somehow imperative that he says something. “My aunties hate it.”

“Why?”

“Think I’m corrupting my cousins, I think.” Zayn shrugs. “Encouraging them to draw on themselves when I let them draw on me.”

Niall barks out a laugh. “Such a bad influence, yeah. Letting little kids do what they want to you.” He shakes his head, then looks back down at Theo, runs his hand over his hair. “What’ll we do with him, Theo?”

“How about letting him eat?” Maura suggests, putting a platter of scrambled eggs on the table. “Guest goes first,” she adds, when Niall reaches out a fork. “Be polite.”

“Yes ma’am,” Niall lets his fork fall, but he rolls his eyes at Zayn. Zayn hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he gets the eggs onto his plate, starts eating. Maybe the jet lag’s thrown off his system, but he’s ravenous, and he eats almost as quickly as Niall, though maybe that’s because he’s distracted with Theo and also negotiating with Greg for what sounds like the custody of either his car or his child.

“Where’s Harry?” Zayn asks, as he grabs the last piece of bacon off of Niall’s plate. Niall’s going to be hungry in an hour anyway, he can have more then.

“Work,” Niall says, through a mouthful of eggs.

“He’s got a job?”

“Well, he works at the bakery while he’s here,” Niall explains. “Less a job and more an excuse to be able to talk about how he’s a baker and shit back in London.”

“He works hard,” Maura objects. “Shannon says he’s a great help.”

Niall rolls his eyes. “Everyone’s in love with him,” he tells Zayn, leaning over to whisper it like it’s confidential. “Think it’s the dimples. Meant I took all the blame for everything, when we were kids.”

Zayn can’t conceive of someone blaming either of them for anything, honestly, the two boys from the pictures he saw yesterday, with their beaming smiles and ready laughter and easy charm. But still, “I could believe it,” he says. Niall’s not the type to shift blame, or try to get out of something he deserves.

He doesn’t mean it to end the conversation, but Niall doesn’t say anything back, just goes back to eating his eggs, deftly avoiding getting anything on Theo. It’s lovely to watch, how Niall deals with Theo—like how he deals with everything, really, a combination of deft skill while making it seem like he’s playing. He really does need to bring Niall to his sometime, Zayn muses, watch all his cousins climb over him. He’d be a hit there.

“So, what are you boys up to today?” Maura asks, once they’re done. Zayn stands up to help, but he waves him away. “You’re a guest, don’t be silly. Greg?”

“I set the table!” he protests. “It’s Niall’s turn.”

“I’ve got your son,” Niall argues.

“Well give him here then.”

“No, he wants me still, you’ll clearly have to do it. Right Theo? We think da should clear the table?”

“I think you should give the boy to me, and both of you do the dishes,” Maura announces, and that’s apparently that.

Today, Niall announces as he leads Zayn out of the house—apparently he won negotiations for Greg’s car, because he slides into the sedan’s driver side and produces the keys—is for sightseeing. Zayn tries to protest that Niall doesn’t need to, has probably done it all a thousand time, but Niall scoffs and insists that Zayn has to have the full Galway experience.

“It’s not much,” Niall admits, “But still, got to do the tourist thing.”

“We really don’t have to. I’m fine just hanging out.”

“I know. That’s what I’m here for though, right? Getting you out?” Niall throws a grin at him, and Zayn can’t help but grin back, leaning back in his seat. It’s nice and cool, a far cry from the humidity that’d be settling over New Haven about now, and the sun’s bright and catching in Niall’s hair, and he’s got one of his favorite people in the seat next to him. Life could be a lot worse.

“So, there’s only a few things. I’ve got a couple different plans. Do you want to see the cathedrals?” Zayn tilts his head at him, in a question. “They’re of the big historical things here, all the tourists like to do it, but I wasn’t sure if you’d be comfortable with it.”

“I don’t actually burn when I come next to a cross, don’t know what Lou’s been telling you,” Zayn retorts. “You’ve seen me in sunlight.”

“Yeah, and you sparkle.” Zayn rolls his eyes.

“We’re not talking about Twilight.”

“Well, all other literary vampires are right over me head. And anyway, didn’t mean that.”

“I know.” Zayn closes his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be comfortable?” He doesn’t mean for it to be accusatory, but it’s hard not to notice the crosses here, the way there’s a picture of the Virgin Mary in his room. The way he’s a few shades darker than anyone else he’s seen yet, basically.

“Zayn.” Zayn opens his eyes. They’re at a red light, and Niall’s turned to look at him full on. He’s serious, for once, straightforward in how he meets Zayn’s gaze. “Just because I know your faith means something to you, and I don’t want you to think I’m, like, proselytizing or summat.”

Zayn can’t help grinning at that, and Niall’s easy words, at how everything in him immediately relaxes, somehow. He knows Niall doesn’t mean any offense, knows he never would. He’d been the one, who when he once mentioned something about going home for Eid, immediately asked Zayn about it and ended up going shopping with him for his sisters. “Yeah, ‘cause you’re such a good Catholic,” he teases, “Certainly wasn’t you who forgot it was Easter until you saw a bunny.”

Niall chuckles. “Don’t tell me mum,” he warns. “And Easter’s the worst, mate. Fucking bunnies.”

“Don’t know what you have against rabbits.” Zayn shoots him a sidelong glance. “I’d like to go, actually. It’s interesting.”

“Yes sir.” Niall spins the wheel, turns right. “And you’d dislike bunnies too, if you got compared to them every year of your life.”

Zayn gives a delighted laugh. “You weren’t.”

“I was,” Niall admits easily. “You can ask Haz, happened all the time.”

“I can see that.”

“No, no you can’t. And if you fucking tell Louis, I’ll…”

“Nah, it works,” Zayn protests, laughing as he fends off the hand Niall flails out to punch him. “You’re adorable like a bunny.”

“That’s everything I’ve ever wanted to hear,” Niall groans. “Adorable.”

“What’s wrong with adorable? It’s cute, cute’s good.” It’s not like Niall’s ever had trouble getting laid. Cute works for him, cute but manly. Zayn’s never wondered why Niall could ever get people with a wink and a bit of charm. “Cute looks good on you.”

Niall snorts, looking down at his hands on the steering wheel. His cheeks are a little red.

“Coming from mister cheekbones and eyelashes.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Means anyone who’s ever called you anything less than gorgeous is dead wrong,” Niall replies, taking a left turn very carefully.

Zayn rubs at the back of his neck. “Stop, I’ll blush.”

“Just telling the truth.” They take another turn, and then there’s the cathedral, looming tall above them. “See, told you we had to do tourist things,” Niall adds, and Zayn can’t exactly disagree.

\---

Niall watches patiently as Zayn wanders the cathedral, tilting his head back to take in the sun streaming through the stained glass. He murmurs explanations of things Zayn asks for (“See, told you I knew the bible better than you!”), and waits when Zayn stops to look at the art. Zayn’s about three-quarters of the way through when he starts fidgeting, his fingers running over his thighs like they want to form chords, and Zayn turns to him.

He’s bathed in the shifting colors of the stained glass, his hair and skinned turned red and blue, and it seems to light him up, until he seems like a part of the church too, one of the angels on the windows.

“You want to go?” Zayn asks, blinking away the sun. Maybe Ireland’s seeping into his bones, making him a poet.

Niall shakes his head. “Don’t want to rush you.”

“You could go do something else, pick me up,” Zayn offers, but again, Niall shakes his head.

“Nah, got to be your guide, don’t I? Make sure you don’t get lost.”

Zayn glances around the wide open space. “I’m not that bad at directions.”

“Well, then I have to make sure you don’t touch a cross and burst into flames,” Niall replies easily, and Zayn sticks out his tongue. Niall’s laughter rings throughout the church, up into the rafters, until it sounds like the whole building is laughing too.

Zayn throws his arms around Niall as they leave, stopping him so he can hug him properly. “Thanks, babe,” he tells him, squeezing him tight.

Niall shrugs. “Told you, had to do it. Sometime before you leave we’ll go to Dublin, see proper tourist things.”

“We don’t—”

“You don’t want to see the Book of Kells?” Niall asks pointedly. From this close, Zayn can see the wry tilt of his eyes, the lines at the corners that come from smiling. “Don’t lie to me, Malik.”

“Yeah, I do,” Zayn admits, and Niall punches the air triumphantly. “It’s just got to be boring for you.”

“It’s never boring when you’re around,” Niall replies easily, and Zayn can only squeeze him tighter. He’s warm and solid in Zayn’s arms, the muscles of his back moving against Zayn’s chest, and Zayn holds on a beat longer before letting go.

“So, where to next?”

“We’ll do St Nicholas,” Niall tells him, “Then the Long Walk on the shore, I think, maybe wander the Latin quarter, then dinner with my da.”

Zayn waits a beat. It’s nearly noon. “And no snacks?”

“Well, lunch first, obviously,” Niall drawls, and leads the way back to the car.

\---

It is good, the other church, then Niall pointing out the various points of interest in the town—mainly ‘oh, I kissed a girl first time there’ and ‘I played my first show there’ and ‘Haz and I once almost burned that library down once’. It’s more like a trip through Niall’s childhood, like he’s seeing into his past, into where he came from, and it’s interesting. It makes sense, somehow, that Niall come from here, this town where everyone smiles at him and greets him, and where the waitress at the café responded to Niall’s expansive flirtation in kind.

Niall’s dad is a quieter version of his son, straightforward and honest and friendly, if less loud about it than his son or ex-wife. The fish he makes is delicious, though, and he and Niall chat about Derby and golf and their jobs. It’s not quite like Zayn and his father, because they’ve always been too similar for idle talk, more likely to sit in quiet together unless there’s something to discuss, but Zayn can still read the affection there, between the two men.

“I like him,” Zayn says, in the car on the way back to Niall’s mom’s.

Niall grins. “Yeah? Not as hot as your dad, but—”

“Shut up,” Zayn snaps, because people really need to stop saying that. “No, like, I mean, your mom’s great too, but…I dunno. You’re nice together.”

Niall nods, like that made sense. Maybe it did, in the darkness of the car, with just the streetlights outside to light them, the music turned low. “It’s always been easier with da. But I wasn’t always—I mean, after the divorce, I was mad at both of them, you know? Didn’t see why they couldn’t be in love still.”

Zayn’s not entirely sure what to say to that, to the confessions Niall’s making. He counts Niall as one of his best friends, but Niall’s never really talked about this much, even if he has mentioned his parents are divorced. “At least you all get along.”

“I s’pose. But, in a way, that made it harder.” Niall’s not looking at him, so Zayn can look his fill without it being weird, the way his jaw is set, but there’s not really much tension in him. He’s over it, in a way Zayn’s always envied in him. How he shrugs things off, doesn’t dwell. “They weren’t really fighting, that I saw, so it didn’t make sense then that they were splitting.” Niall shrugs again.

“Then? But it makes sense now?”

“Sorta. Like, now that I’ve grown up.” Niall reaches over, and for a second Zayn thinks he’s going to put his hand on Zayn’s leg. But he doesn’t, just adjusts the a/c. “You don’t choose who you fall in love with, and if it doesn’t happen it doesn’t happen, ya know?”

“Yeah.” Zayn hums, thinking of Becca. He’s not sure, now, if he ever did love her. It felt like he did, in the constant swirl of action and drama around her, in the highs and lows of emotion. But if he did, wouldn’t this be worse? It’s only been three months; should he be as over her as he is? Probably not, he thinks, if he did love her like he should have. Maybe she was right, and she wasn’t what he wanted. But he doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what else it could be.

Then he tilts his head. “Only sort of?”

Niall’s grin flashes for a second, like he’s pleased to be asked, that Zayn was listening enough to hear it. But of course Zayn was listening, Zayn always listens to Niall, or he tries to. But then his face goes serious. “I don’t get the giving up. They’re happy apart, and that’s good, but it’s always seemed—I mean, it’s not like I have experience. But seems to me like if you want something like a marriage, you’ve got to work at it.”

“I guess.” Zayn bites on his lip. “But it’s not always that easy.”

“Did you, with Becca?” Niall asks. Like usual there’s no demand in it. “Try to win her back?”

The words settle in the silence, as Zayn considers. Niall waits, fingers tapping on the steering wheel along with the beat. “No,” Zayn says at last, “No, like, I have before, you know, but this time, dunno, it felt different. I was tired of it, you know? Maybe she was right.” Zayn goes on. “Like, if you want it enough, you’ll fight for it. And if you don’t, and let it go, then maybe it wasn’t what you really wanted.”

“Yeah,” Niall agrees, thoughtful. He turns into the driveway and parks the car, but he doesn’t get out after unbuckling his seat belt, so neither does Zayn. It’s nice in here, in the quiet of the car with just the two of them and the ease that’s always been there between them. “So, tell me, relationship guru. If I wanted someone—like, really wanted them—I should go after it?”

“’course.” Zayn reaches out, strokes at Niall’s chin. “No one could say no to you. Adorable, remember? And Irish charm, too.”

With his hand on Niall, he can feel his face turn into a smile, the little bashful one he gets sometimes when he’s complimented. “But like, what if—oh, fuck it,” he mutters, then restarts, louder, “Zayn—”

“What’re we doing sitting in the car?”

Niall jumps as the backseat door opens and Harry plops in, dislodging Zayn’s hand. “Jesus fucking Christ, Haz! Knock!”

“On the car?” Harry raises an eyebrow, like that’s the weirdest thing he’s ever heard. “You know there are windows anyway, right?”

“Yeah. Just, fucking hell.” Niall shakes his head. “Scared ten years off my life.”

“Then you won’t have to outlive me,” Harry replies without hesitation, “That’s a pity, I’ve always thought I should die first. So you could properly mourn me. So, what are we doing in the car?”

“Driving?” Zayn suggests, and Niall snorts out a laugh.

Harry scoffs. “Excuse me, but no you weren’t. I saw you pull up a few minutes ago.”

“Nothing Haz, just chatting.” Niall rolls his eyes at Zayn. “Come on, let’s go in.”

“Yeah, I want to hear all about Zayn’s first day in Ireland!” Harry agrees, bouncing back out of the car. “I know you didn’t see the best bits, because you didn’t come to the bakery—”

“Oh, are the best bits there?” Zayn drawls, getting out of the car. He lets his gaze trail obviously down Harry, before flicking back up to his face, and the dimples there.

“Yeah they are,” Harry purrs.

“He means the scones,” Niall adds, jerking open the door to let Zayn through. “They’re one of the best things about coming home.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know my bits are great too. But yes, the scones, you need to come by tomorrow, I’ll give you them for free.”

“Free scones?” Niall’s ears perk up, but Harry lifts up his nose.

“Not for you. Just for Zayn. I only give scones to people who are nice to me.”

“I’ve put up with you for almost twenty years.”

“Yes, but your cheekbones aren’t nearly as nice as Zayn’s,” Harry retorts.

“Nor my eyelashes, it’s true,” Niall agrees, and Zayn’s laughing as he follows them up the stairs.

\---

“You could come with me,” Niall says, as they walk into the bakery the next morning. Or at least it’s morning in Zayn’s opinion, which means it’s noon, but that’s early enough. “The lads’d love to meet you.”

“No, you need time on your own.” Zayn covers a yawn with his hand, then manages to get something resembling a smile out when Harry beams at him from across the counter. The bakery’s nice and neat and bright, definitely homey despite being right on the main square across from the train station. It has the feel of a university coffeeshop, though, and there’s something instantly comforting about that, like Zayn knows how this place works.

“You sick of me already?” Niall leans his arm on Zayn’s shoulder as they shuffle forward.

“Never.” It’s not entirely true, but it’s true enough. “Just don’t want to, like, intrude or whatever.”

“Never,” Niall teases back. “And I need to show you I’ve got less weird friends than Harry, here.”

“I take weird as a compliment, you know,” Harry retorts. Zayn sort of wants to throw something at him, because he looks chipper and awake and functioning, and it’s too early for that. Even if it’s not early. Zayn’s never claimed to be a morning person. “What’ll you have, lads?”

Zayn blinks, looks at the menu. “Um—”

“Get him a coffee,” Niall tells Harry, and Zayn nods his thanks. “He doesn’t function til after caffeine.”

Zayn grunts his assent, and Harry chuckles. “Okay. You staying, or…”

“I’m out, gonna go hang with Sean and the lads. Gonna hand Zayn off to you for a while.”

“I’m sure we’ll find a way to amuse ourselves.”

Zayn snorts. “I did bring my computer.”

“Hey, I’m much more entertaining than a computer!”

“Don’t count on it,” Niall retorts, then turns to Zayn. “I’m gonna head, I’ll be back later. Text me if you want me to pick you up earlier or something.”

“Yes mom,” Zayn drawls.

“I’ve met your mum, I can live with that,” Niall replies, and then he’s gone with a wave for the other barista behind the counter.

Zayn settles in a corner table with the laptop. Despite what Harry said, people come in right on Niall’s heels—some with the harsh twang of US in their voice, but more locals, or at least Irish tourists—so Zayn settles in a corner with his laptop. One of the other baristas, a girl with hair out of an Irish stereotype and freckles across his cheeks, brings him coffee and a scone, and he spends an hour or so answering emails. He sends Louis an account of everything he’s seen and done so far, asks after the cats, then an email to Doniya so she can update their parents. There are emails from his advisor, from some students asking for recommendations or advice, some from fellowships, and by the time Zayn’s done with all of them he’s finished all the food.

He gets up to order another coffee, because if there’s one thing grad school taught him it’s that you can never have too much caffeine, and then he dives back in. The wifi is good enough he can get onto the Yale VPN, and he gets sucked back into JSTOR and all the articles on the court of Suleiman that he bookmarked before he left.

He doesn’t know how long passes before someone clearing their throat next to him makes him jump, but the sun’s definitely significantly farther along in the sky.

“Hey.” Harry grins at him, sets down a plate with another scone and some clotted cream on it next to his laptop. “Thought you might be hungry again.”

“Oh, thanks.” Now that Harry says it, he realizes he is. And it’s clear why, glancing at the clock; it’s going on 5:30. “Yeah, didn’t realize how late it was.”

“You were pretty into it.” Harry’s not moving. It takes Zayn a second, but he gets the hint eventually.

“Want to sit down?”

“Sure!” Harry plops into the seat across from Zayn, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankles. “Thanks.”

Zayn tries to think of a more tactful way to say it, but, “Aren’t you working?” he asks.

“Break. Don’t you have those in America?” Harry laughs, and breaks off a piece of the scone. He did bring it, Zayn figures; he’s entitled to some, so he doesn’t object.

“I’ve heard tell it happens.”

“I suspected it might.” Harry licks the crumbs purposefully off his fingers—Zayn doesn’t think it’s a show meant for him, but it’s a nice show nonetheless—then leans forward, intent. “So, Zayn. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

“Okay?” Zayn gives the half-finished article a wistful look, but he closes his computer. He doesn’t want to antagonize Niall’s best friend.

“I want…like, all joking aside, Niall’s my best friend, you know? I know we rib each other a lot, but he’s, like…the wind beneath my wings.”

“Okay.” Zayn’s trying not to smile, but he’s also pretty sure he’s failing.

“So is he happy, do you think?”

“Of course.” Zayn answers without thinking. “It’s Niall, he’s always happy.”

“No, not just Niall-happy, really happy.” Harry shakes his head. A few strands of hair have fallen out of his ponytail, so they brush across his forehead. His eyes are wide and intense. “He always tells me he’s happy, all the good stories, but he’d always say that.”

“Yeah.” Zayn takes the time to think, this time, because Harry’s right, of course. Niall will always say he’s happy, and he’ll probably always be happy, because he rolls with punches better than anyone Zayn’s seen, in a lot of ways. But yeah, Zayn knows what Harry means, because he’s seen Niall in a crowd, when he’d pushed close into Zayn’s side and Zayn would signal to Becca he had to go, had to get Niall out of there; he’s seen Niall when he’s twitching and anxious and mutters things about having to make more plans, better plans, because his aren’t enough. But… “Yeah, I think so,” Zayn says, softly. “Like, I hope so.”

“That was my feeling, too.” Harry nods, like Zayn’s word is law. “He’s been in a much better place, last few times I saw him. ‘specially with his mum. It’s great he’s staying with her, that’s a big thing. Every other time he came home, he stayed with his dad.”

“Yeah, he said he was angry at her for a while.” Zayn’s not trying to prove anything, obviously Harry knows Niall better than him and it’s not like Zayn doesn’t have best friends, but maybe he’s trying to prove something a little bit. That he’s a good friend to Niall, that Niall’s worth entrusting to him or something much less possessive than that. “With the divorce and all.”

“He told you about that?” Harry asks, eyes big.

“Yeah, we were talking about, like, commitment or whatever.” Zayn shrugs. “Why?”

“No reason.” Harry’s a shit liar, but Zayn decides not to press him on it. He doesn’t know Harry well enough to figure out where his lines are. “So, you and he are pretty close, then?”

“Sure.”

“How’d you meet?” Zayn rolls his eyes, but Harry’s light up. “No, come on, you just appeared in Niall’s stories one day as his mate who’s the most good looking man alive, he’d never tell me how you met!”

“Most good looking man alive?” Zayn retorts. It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell Harry, exactly, it’s just not a story, really. Zayn had been trying to listen to the cute blonde musician in a bar, Louis had knocked a glass over onto his shirt, he’d had to go to the bathroom to wash it off, and had gotten distracted talking to Niall instead. Then Niall had been tending bar the next night. He’s not entirely sure how it got from there to Niall having a key to his flat, and being his sounding board for his problems, with Becca and school and family, when Louis got fed up with it, but Niall does that, sucks people in, makes friends like breathing, and not even Zayn’s immune to it.

“His words, not mine.” Harry holds up his hands, but he’s dimpling behind them. “Not that I disagree, mind.”

“Sure. Bet you say that to all the boys,” Zayn retorts.

“Maybe,” Harry allows, smirking with a lot of come hither thrown in. Zayn laughs, leans back in his chair, and Harry’s face relaxes into a grin. “Like I said, I’m not, like, a boyfriend kind of guy, in general. I’m not much good at being tied down.” He pauses. “Well, unless it’s the fun way.”

His phone buzzes, and his fingers twitch towards it, but for the first time, he doesn’t pick it up. “I’m a roving wanderer, you know? Want to see the world.”

Zayn glances around. It’s nice here, he’ll admit, but he’s never really understood the itchy feet some people have, the need to wander. He likes his home, and his cats, and his bar; he likes knowing Louis’s a five minute walk away and Niall’s fifteen minutes the other direction and his parents are forty-five minute’s train ride. Likes knowing someone’s in bed with him, and will be tomorrow. Likes having a routine, and not having to figure out each day as it comes. “Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m a homebody, myself. Kind of a serial monogamist.”

“Well that’s less fun,” Harry pouts, his cheeks hollowing out and his full lips rounded. That is a show meant for him, Zayn knows, and he laughs, brushing his hair out of his face. He’d forgotten a headband this morning, and it’s at the length where it falls into his eyes almost constantly.

“Oh,” he drawls, “I know how to have fun, too.”

“Bet you do,” Harry replies easily, patting his knee. “And—”

“Not interrupting, am I?” Niall asks, appearing next to Zayn.

Zayn tilts his head up to grin, but Harry sticks out his lower lip exaggeratedly at Niall. “Yes, you are interrupting me,” he retorts, and Niall snorts.

“So nothing, then.”

“I was saying something very important, I’ll have you know. Tell Zayn he should have fun.”

“You should have fun,” Niall parrots obediently. He nudges Zayn’s shoulder with his hip. “Are you not having fun?”

“He doesn’t think I should do relationships,” Zayn explains, and Niall nods knowledgably.

“Yeah, the free as a bird thing? I’ve heard it before.”

“You agreed with me, once!” Harry objects. “It’s not my fault you’ve changed your tune, recently.”

“Oh?” Zayn asks, “You planning to settle down, Nialler? Stop breaking all the hearts?”

“Well, I am getting old,” Niall retorts, “You good to go, Zayn?”

Zayn nods, and leans down to put his computer away. Over his head, Harry asks curiously, “So, what did change your mind? A few months ago, you were all for casual sex.”

“Told you, I’m getting old,” Niall replies. “Things changed.”

“But—”

“Don’t you have a job or something?” Niall adds, and Harry lets it go as Zayn straightens up again.

Niall’s quiet as they leave the bakery, nibbling on his nails until Zayn grabs his hand and draws it away from his mouth. “Have a good time with your friends?” he asks, to distract Niall from whatever’s bothering him.

“Yeah.” Niall glances at his hand, then he takes a breath, and Zayn can almost see him shrugging whatever it was off. “Next time you aren’t getting out of it, Malik. Everyone wanted to meet you.”

“Not sure I can live up to everything you’re saying about me,” Zayn lets go of Niall’s hand to ruffle his hair. “Heard I was the most good looking man alive, after all.”

“You are,” Niall confirms, without missing a beat, even if his cheeks are a little red. “And Haz should stop talking about things I told him in confidence.”

“Doesn’t sound like keeping his mouth shut is exactly Harry’s style,” Zayn muses, and listens to Niall agree, with examples, as they get back to the car. He’s paying attention to the stories, he is, but more he’s watching how Niall’s smiling again, like he’s lit up from the inside.

\---

“So, did you get work done?” Niall asks. Niall apparently decided that Zayn needed real fish and chips tonight, so instead of eating at his mum’s, they’re at a restaurant that Niall claims has the best in the city. It’s a nice change, Zayn can admit. He likes Niall’s family, but another family dinner with Niall’s mom isn’t as relaxing as just Niall.

“Yeah.” Zayn shrugs. “Like, got a few more pages.”

“So you’re on track?”

“More or less.” Zayn shrugs. “Not all of us have schedules for our schedules, Horan.”

“And some of us don’t lose our glasses when we’re wearing them,” Niall retorts. Zayn laughs, sticks out his tongue.

“That was once!” he protests. “And I was drunk.”

“Suuuure,” Niall agrees. “You’ve never lost anything else.”

Zayn doesn’t really have a good way to reply to that, because it’s true, so it’s lucky the waitress comes by.

“What’ll you have?” she asks. Her accent’s thicker than Niall’s, but not as thick as some of the people who Zayn’s actually had trouble understanding.

“Um—” Zayn glances up at the menu. He hadn’t thought. Is there more he needs to ask for then just a fish and chips?

“We’ll both have fish and chips,” Niall fills in. “And a Guinness.”

“Niall,” Zayn inserts. He’s had so much Guinness already so far he thinks his stomach weighs three times as much as when he started. “Do you have any IPAs?” he asks the waitress.

Niall snorts. “It’s his first time in Ireland,” He tells her, patting Zayn’s hand comfortingly. “Hasn’t got the constitution yet.”

She laughs, because apparently not even the Irish are immune to Niall. Zayn had always thought it was Irish charm, but maybe it’s just Niall charm. “A Guinness and an IPA then,” she repeats, “And two fish and chips?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Zayn confirms. “And, sorry, but what’s the wifi password?”

She reels it off, and Zayn inputs it into his phone. It feels impolite, especially because Niall’s right there, but Waliyha has a recital today and his mum promised to send him pictures.

“Your sister good?” Niall asks, instead of objecting. Zayn glances away from his phone, and Niall’s just smiling at him. Good, he’s not offended.

“Yeah. Apparently it was great.” He turns the phone so Niall can see the pictures of Wali.

“She looks good,” Niall nods.

“Hey.” Zayn pokes at Niall’s chest. “Stay away from my sister. She’s too young for you.”

“I didn’t mean that!” Niall laughs, holding up his hands. “She’s not—I mean, she looks a lot like you.”

“Yeah, everyone says that. It’s Saf and Doni, then me and Wali.” Zayn gives his phone one last look, but that’s all the pictures apparently.

“Well, your whole family’s unfairly attractive.” Niall informs him.

Zayn eyes him. “You still have to stay away from my sisters.”

Niall snorts, his fingers drumming on the table. His eyes are bright as he looks at Zayn. “I promise, your sisters are safe from me. Just don’t introduce them to Harry.”

“Never,” Zayn swears fervently, and Niall’s laughing as the waitress returns.

Niall accepts the Guinness the waitress hands him. “Anyway, tell me about what you were working on today. How was Suleiman?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “You don’t want to hear about that.” He’s learned his lesson on that one. No one wants to hear about a thesis. Hell, he doesn’t even want to hear about his thesis half the time.

“Sure I do.”

“Only if you tell me about the song you were working on,” Zayn retorts. “That’s much more interesting.”

Niall grins, but he glances down into his Guinness, then back at Zayn. “You are interesting, though. Dunno why you think you’re not.”

“My work isn’t,” Zayn corrects.

Niall shakes his head. “It is when you’re into it.” He takes another swig of Guinness, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “Tell me about Suleiman.”

So Zayn does, and Niall listens, even though Zayn knows perfectly well there’s no way he’s interested in this. But he listens, watches him as he sips at his Guinness, at least until the food comes, then they’re both distracted. It is good, Zayn can admit, the fish melting in his mouth, the fries just oily enough. Zayn eats all of his, and he must be hungry because he finishes before Niall, enough that he steals a few fries off of Niall’s plate too, which has Niall laughing. Although that’s probably because Niall’s somehow ordered twice as much as him.

“Enjoy it?”

“Yeah.” Zayn licks the last of the salt off his lips, “You were right.”

“It would go better with Guinness,” Niall informs him. “That’s how it was meant to be eaten.”

“Of course it was.” Fuck, but he’s stuffed. He watches Niall eat another fry, then idly drags a napkin towards him, pulls a pen out of his pocket. He needs something to do with his hands. “Is there anything that isn’t?”

“Sure, the food that’s supposed to go with whiskey.” Niall chews, swallows, then adds, “And wine, I guess.”

“You’re such a generous bartender.”

“Right?” Niall gestures with the fry he’s holding. “It’s a bartender’s job to know what drink you should have.”

“You’re good at that,” Zayn tells him. He is. He always has been, as long as Zayn’s known him. And not just with alcohol. He knows what Zayn needs, always, whether it’s quiet or a trip to Ireland. “At least with me.”

Niall cuts a piece of fish off. “Maybe you’re just obvious.”

“Maybe,” Zayn admits, but he doesn’t think that’s it. He thinks it’s just Niall.

Niall finishes eating eventually, and they negotiate splitting the check, even though Niall tries to insist it’s his treat. But Zayn can’t let Niall pay for everything he eats here, so he insists. Zayn throws the napkin he was doodling on onto his plate as they get up—and Niall grabs at it.

“What were you drawing?” he asks, shaking off the bits of crumbs.

“Nothing, just doodles.” Zayn rubs at his ear. He knows his doodles aren’t anything, really; there’s a reason he decided on English as a major rather than art. And this is even less than anything, just an idle sketch of Niall’s profile, that completely failed to capture his brightness.

Niall studies it for a second though, then looks at Zayn. “Fuck, Zayn.”

“It’s not good, didn’t get even half of you,” Zayn agrees, “That’s why I was throwing it out.”

“No, it’s brilliant. You’re just—” Niall shakes his head, then throws an arm around Zayn’s shoulder, tugs him in as he folds the napkin and puts it in his pocket. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Plenty,” Zayn demurs, but he can feel himself blushing, and Niall’s still just shaking his head.

\---

They end up back at a different pub that night, one right in the Latin quarter. “It’s touristy,” Niall informs Zayn, as he guides him over the cobbled roads. Harry’s tagging behind, looking at his phone. “But it’s a lot of fun.”

“You really don’t have to do all the tourist things for me,” Zayn insists, for maybe the hundredth time. Niall rolls his eyes, and slows to a stop outside of a pub with _Taafe’s_ written across the sign in script. There are people milling around outside, but Niall eyes it expertly.

“We’re early enough we might be able to sit down, c’mon.”

They aren’t, as it turns out, all the booths in the dark wood interior of the front room—or the room around the raised stage, which Zayn assumes is the front—taken, and most of the ones in back too. But because it’s Niall—and Harry, Zayn’s learning—that only lasts for as long as it takes Zayn to get them a round, because by the time he’s back with three drinks cradled between his hands, they’ve carved out a spot around a table that’s otherwise filled with girls a little younger than them.

“Zayn!” Niall yells, and waves to him. Zayn sits down in the seat he indicates with a bit of trepidation. It’s not like he can’t talk to people like this, because he can, he just…isn’t as good at it as Niall is. That was what had been great about having Becca, that the stress of this kind of interaction was off. “This is Kate, and Mary, and Caroline.” The three girls all nod to him, smiling. It’s the last—Caroline, Zayn assumes, who gives him the most obvious once over. “They’re from Ohio, on a visit. Lasses,” Zayn presses his lips together so he won’t grin at how Niall’s playing up the accent, “This is Zayn.”

“Hi!” Caroline says, sticking out a hand for Zayn to take. He does, because he has to, but he’s not—he doesn’t want this, not right now.

“Hey,” he replies, and lets her hand go. “Nice to see a fellow American.”

“Oh, you’re—” Her face falls, but only slightly. Zayn supposes his face is enough to make up for it. “Is this your first time here?” she amends, gamely. Her fingers card through her dark hair. “It’s ours, and we’re really enjoying it.”

“Mine too,” Zayn admits. “It’s good to have a guide, though. Niall here’s a native, he’s taking care of me.”

“Not that he needs taking care of,” Niall inserts, even though Zayn’s pretty sure he was chatting with the pretty, sharp-boned brunette who Zayn thinks is Kate. “We’re making an Irishman of him yet.”

“Yeah, I definitely fit in here,” Zayn drawls, and Caroline giggles.

“Don’t worry Zayn.” That’s Harry, doing his slow, lazy smile. “You look plenty fit to me.”

“What—oh!” Kate claps her hands. “That means hot, right? That’s the slang?”

Harry’s lips twitch. “That’s right.” It’s impressive, watching him turn the full force of his smile on the girl, watching her melt under it. Zayn can’t really blame her. It’s a lot of charm in that knowing smile, in the way his dimples appear. “Do you want to learn more?”

“Yeah!” she cheers, and leans forward. Her friend—Mary, the quiet one—leans in too to listen.

Zayn chats a bit more with Caroline about what they’ve done, where she’s been, even what she does back in Cleveland, but he tries to keep it light. It’s not that he wouldn’t mind getting laid, but…this isn’t what he wants. Maybe he’s just been in a relationship for too long. And she must get some of that vibe, because pretty soon she’s turned to Niall, who’s happy to flirt cheerfully with her, if not with the sort of concentrated attention he gets when he wants to pull.

They’ve been there for about an hour when people start to come out on stage—three of them, a guitar, a banjo, and an accordion, Zayn thinks, which isn’t a combination he’s seen before. But it becomes clear when they start playing that it works, because they jump right into the traditional Irish music like the last few nights.

Zayn might be biased, but he doesn’t think it’s as good as Niall’s friends. But it’s still enough to get his feet tapping, and the girls are grinning excitedly and clapping along, and Harry’s even put his phone away to listen. Niall’s not so impressed, Zayn can tell, with how his lips twist, but it’s hard not for him to get enthusiastic, so he gets into the swing of things too, yelling out the lyrics with everyone else who knows them.

Zayn figures that this is it, that it’s just more music—which is fun, and enough, and the bar’s a cool subsection of natives and tourists—but they’re a few songs in when the crowd in front of the stage backs away a little, and Zayn can see through the crowd it’s because two people are dancing, a quick waltz that has Zayn gaping at how sure and steady their footwork is.

For a while it’s just that one couple, then the girl of it breaks away, and they’re dragging two more people in. Harry jumps up at that, turns to Kate. “May I have this dance?” he asks, dimpling, and Zayn’s not surprised when she lets out a surprised breath and takes his hand.

Niall elbows Zayn. “Gonna ask her?” he asks, nodding at Caroline, who’s laughing as she watches her friend and Harry attempt to waltz, even if it seems to consist more of them cracking up as they step on each other’s toes. Everyone around them’s cheering anyway, and the music’s the constant background, quick and thrumming like a heartbeat.

“Nah, I don’t dance.”

“Neither does Haz, and it’s not stopping him.” Niall points out, as Harry and Kate manage a clumsy spin. “You should, ‘s fun. Most other people here don’t either.”

“Not going to dance,” Zayn repeats. He’s just about gotten dancing at a club down, even if he knows he looks incredibly dorky doing it, but this is something else, and not something he wants to attempt. Harry’s got the panache to pull it off, but Zayn…with someone he doesn’t know…he’s not going to do it.

“You sure?” Niall asks. It’s not a demand, not a push, just a question, and his eyes are shadowed in the dim club light, but still somehow bright, like the sun’s captured in it, because Zayn’s a sap when he’s drunk.

“Yeah.” Zayn nods. He loves Niall, and he loves that Niall thinks he could, but he can’t. “You should go, though. If you want.”

Niall gives him another long look, his brow furrowing slightly, but then he turns to Mary. “Shall we try?” he asks, and then they’re gone.

Caroline’s already gone, probably understanding it’s a lost cause; she’s found some other man in the crowd who’s definitely more skilled than Zayn would have been, so Zayn sips at his beer and watches. Harry’s a mess, obviously, but his partners all smile at him, clearly endeared. And Niall—Zayn shouldn’t be surprised, he supposes, that Niall knows how to do this. But he still is, somehow, that Niall’s moving purposefully, with confidence as he twirls his partner, leads her through the mess of people with sure feet. He spins, and his gaze meets Zayn’s for a second—he winks, Zayn toasts him—then they’re rotating again.

It’s a small change, but one Zayn can see, when the pub starts getting crowded, so that the dancers are bumping into each other more. Harry’s still laughing, apologizing profusely to everyone he knocks over, but Zayn only needs a glance at Niall, jostling for room on the edge of the dancers, before he’s getting up.

The crowd’s dense, but they’re a lot more polite than in America, so it doesn’t take long for Zayn to make it through, and luckily a song’s ending just as he gets to the edge of the circle, so he can grab Niall’s arm. Niall jumps, which is a testament to the crowds, and he doesn’t relax even when he glances over his shoulder to see who it is.

“You dancing?” he yells.

Zayn can feel how tense his arms are, can see the way his jaw is set. “I’m going for a smoke,” he says instead. “Come with me?”

Niall lets out a relieved breath. “Sorry, love,” he tells the girl he’d been dancing with, a curvy blonde with her cheeks flushed red. “Got to keep this one company. You’re a lovely dancer.”

She smiles back, her cheeks going a shade darker, but there are more people all around them, and the band’s starting a new song. He uses his hand on Niall’s arm to pull him close, then edges out of the back entrance, where he’s seen plenty of smokers going.

Sure enough, it’s an alley. There are three or four groups of people out, and the music’s piping out through speakers, but it’s cool and empty out here, which is what Zayn had hoped for.

Niall lets out another long breath as the cooler air hits him, then takes three more breaths, all long and controlled. Zayn leans against the wall as he does, trying not to seem like he’s watching Niall as closely as he is. It’s always struck Zayn as a little odd, the claustrophobia, because Niall loves to be surrounded by people so much, but he supposes he likes the level of distance too. He does best in a place that crowded on stage or behind the bar, where it’s safe and contained.

“Didn’t you want a smoke?” Niall asks, after another breath. He’s looking better, the color back in his cheeks, the tension leaving his shoulders.

Zayn shrugs, but now that he’s here, he does dig in his pockets for a pack. “Wanted to give you an excuse to get outside, mainly.”

“Oh.” Zayn lights the cigarette, brings it to his lips. When he looks up from that, Niall’s just looking at him again, a soft smile on. “You didn’t have to do that. I’d’ve managed.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Niall looks okay enough that Zayn tugs at his arm to pull him against the wall next to him, so he can wrap his arm around his shoulders. For the comfort, mainly. “’m always there for you, you know that.”

“Yeah.” There’s a pause, as Zayn takes a drag of his cigarette, then, “So, none of those girls strike your fancy? Bet they have a nice hotel room.” Niall waggles his eyebrows, and Zayn chuckles.

“No. I don’t—like, that’s not what I want, you know? That whole monogamist thing. It’s a killer on one night stands.”

“You’re still going for a girlfriend? Even after Becca?”

“Or a boyfriend?” Zayn shrugs. “I dunno. Like, if I meet someone, sure. What about you?” he asks, before Niall can press, can ask for answers he’s not sure of. “The accent works plenty well in there, it looks like.”

“And do what, take them home? Mum’d kill me.” Niall makes a horrified face. “And, nah. Here to show you things, aren’t I? I could find American girls at home.”

“Classy.”

“’m always classy, Malik,” Niall retorts, and lets out a burp, clearly on purpose. Zayn wrinkles his nose, but he can’t help laughing, too.

“Harry and I could get home on our own, if you wanted to go with someone,” Zayn adds, though, because he feels like he has to. Even if really, he’d like it if Niall stayed here, warm against him, in their own little bubble with the music from inside around them. But he knows Niall, and Niall tends to pull at places like this.

“You trying to get rid of me?”

“Never.” Maybe Zayn’s drunker than he thinks, because it comes out firmly, like a declaration. He adds a laugh to it, because it sounds…too much, otherwise. “You know I’d never ditch you.” Niall shivers, and Zayn narrows his eyes at him. “You cold? Want to go back inside?”

“No.” Niall shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

“Well, maybe if you decided to ever wear sleeves,” Zayn teases, rubbing at Niall’s bare forearm, just in case.

“Some of us can’t pull off leather jackets year-round,” Niall retorts, and doesn’t move away.

“Well sure,” Zayn agrees, straight-faced, “You’ve got to flash some skin to make up for looking so horribly ugly.”

“Exactly.” Niall nods, lips twitching. “Why do you think Harry shows so much?”

Zayn giggles, curling into Niall’s neck to bury it as best he can, and Niall’s laughter is in his ears and his hand on the small of Zayn’s back. Niall’s right, he thinks, he is enjoying this.

\---

“Zayn, I’ve been going out on the bay since I was born, you’re fine.”

Zayn gives the boat another look. He knows he’s going to be fine; it’s a fairly sturdy looking boat, and anyway he trusts Niall, he does. He just…really isn’t a fan of water.

“You two could go fishing by yourselves,” he suggests, hopefully. He’d tried it before, back at the house, but maybe it’ll work now.

“If Haz’s managed not to drown by now, neither will you,” Niall insists, and ignores Harry’s mock-offended breath from the prow of the boat to reach out his hands to Zayn. “And if you do fall in, I promise I’ll save you.”

“Promise?” Zayn repeats. He knows it’s pathetic. He’s a grown man, he shouldn’t be this wary.

“Promise.” Niall smiles, bright as the sun reflecting off the water. “Cross my heart and hope to die, and everything.”

“It’s not you dying I’m worried about,” Zayn mutters, but he takes Niall’s hands, and lets him pull him onto the boat. Because it’s Zayn’s luck, there’s a wave or something the instant he sets foot on the deck, and the deck tilts and Zayn stumbles, grabbing at whatever’s closest, which happens to be Niall. He topples into him, hitting his chest hard.

“Fuck,” he curses into Niall’s neck. He’s going to die, he knows it. Here on Niall’s boat in Galway bay.

“You’re okay.” Niall’s arms are around him, and his hand’s running down Zayn’s back. “You’re good, Zee. I’ve got you.”

“Don’t laugh.” It’s all Zayn can think to say, because he knows this is pathetic. Becca’d made fun of him, for his thing with water. Louis makes fun of him for his thing with water.

“Not laughing, swear.” Niall’s lips are close enough to his temple that they’re brushing his skin, their bodies pressed tight enough that Zayn can feel his breaths, long and slow. Zayn times their breathing together, once, twice. “You good?”

“Yeah.” But he holds on for a second longer, breathing with Niall. It’s easy to breath, with Niall fit against him, and Niall doesn’t seem to object, just keeps his fingers running over Zayn’s back.

“Are you two going to cuddle all day, or are we going fishing?” Harry asks. “Just curious.”

“Fuck off.” Niall flips Harry off, and loosens his grip on Zayn. “You sure you’re good?” he asks, his hands still wrapped loosely around Zayn’s shoulders.

“Yeah.” Zayn takes a deep breath on his own. The deck’s steady beneath his feet. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Legend.” Niall’s smile flashes, then he lets go. “Okay, let’s head out.”

Zayn takes a seat on the bench next to Harry as Niall guides them out. This is another skill Zayn didn’t know Niall had, but he looks just as competent here as he does with a guitar in hand or behind the bar, steering with a steady hand, or so Zayn assumes. Harry keeps up a constant chatter as they head out, about mostly nothing at all. It’s probably a distraction technique, Zayn figures, because he’s found out in the few weeks he’s been here Harry’s random actions are rarely as random as they appear, but he appreciates it all the same.

“Is this the Liam you’ve been texting all the time?” Niall asks, as Harry winds down a long, rambling story that Zayn lost the thread of five minutes ago. He does something with controls, then they must drop anchor because he’s stepping away from the wheel and heading to a bin under one of the benches.

“Yep!” Harry pops the ‘p’, and swings up to standing as well. “Well, he’s not the only one I’m texting.”

“So you’re not texting him right now?”

Harry doesn’t lower his phone. “No, I’m instagramming right now. Honestly, Niall, your suspicion is uncalled for. Just because I’m helping a friend through a tough time…”

“Like you helped me?”

Harry snorts. “No, thank you very much.” He takes the rod Niall hands him, then holds it out to Zayn.

Zayn shakes his head. “No, um, you guys can do that. I’ll just watch.”

“You got all the way out here, though!” Niall says from inside the bin.

“No, I don’t…” He glances towards the railing, then at the rod, then at the hooks Niall’s bringing out. He’s not especially sentimental, he’s never thought, but still. “I, like. I don’t like to see them struggle.”

Harry laughs, and Zayn ducks his head as Niall gives him a fond look. “Not much for killing spiders, are you?”

“No,” he admits. Then he swallows. Who cares what Harry thinks? “But I’m not afraid of them, either.”

“Who told you—Niall!” Harry accuses, whirling so that Zayn has to duck under his rod. “Are you telling my secrets?”

“You told mine first,” Niall retorts, and he grins at Zayn. “And that’s what I’m for anyway, right? For you to call when spiders need killing.”

“Why I keep you around,” Zayn agrees. “That and to catch me fish.”

“Niall is a good provider,” Harry agrees, grudge apparently forgotten that easily. “He’ll be such a good husband one day.”

“Yeah, me Niall, here fish.” Niall casts his rod out, and Harry follows suit quickly. It’s interesting, watching them, how they move around each other like they’ve been doing it for years.

“Pay in sex,” Harry adds, smirking when Niall swats at him. “What, that’s what a marriage is, right?”

“What sort of relationships have you been in?”

“None, really.”

“Yeah, I can see why.”

Zayn may not really get the appeal of fishing, or being on a boat, but he can admit it’s nice out, in the middle of nowhere with nothing but water around them and the sun pleasantly warm on his bare shoulders. He doesn’t know how long he watches the other boys, the seagulls wheeling above them, the waves lapping at the side of the boat. It’s like the rest of the trip, really, how it’s all blurred into one long expanse of days working at the bakery while Niall’s busking on the streets, of music at the pubs at night and waking up to the coffee Niall’s already made for him. Of just relaxing. It’s easier to sleep here, away from all the baggage Becca left him. Away from the expectation of what he should be.

“Hey, budge up,” comes Niall’s voice, and Zayn opens his eyes. He might have actually fallen asleep here, because he’s lying on the bench and Niall’s standing over him, backlit by the sun so it looks like his hair’s on fire.

“Sure, Katniss.” Zayn lifts his body enough for Niall to sit down, then settles his head back on Niall’s thighs.

“Hm?”

“Nothing.” Niall nods, letting it go. His hand’s resting on his thigh, no more than an inch away from Zayn’s cheek, probably, and they’re twitching, like they always do when he’s sitting still.

Zayn thinks he could lie here in silence forever, just the sound of the waves and Niall’s leg as his pillow, but it’s because he could that he asks, “So you’ve been fishing forever?”

“Sure, can’t grow up on the bay without it.” Niall’s hand inches up, then, like he’s made a decision, starts petting over Zayn’s hair. Zayn doesn’t usually like people touching his hair, but Niall’s always been the exception. “Greg, my da, and I would go out all the time in the summer, sit here for hours.”

He’s smiling as he says it, like it’s a good memory, but there’s no hiding the nostalgia in his voice either. “Do you miss them?” Zayn asks, tilting his head back so he can look at Niall’s face better. “Being so far away?”

“Sure.” Niall shrugs. “But ‘s not like I can’t skype them and all, and there’re perks to America too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” The sun’s still bright in Zayn’s eyes, so it’s hard to read Niall’s expression, but he’s definitely looking at Zayn, focused like he gets when posed with a puzzle. “Like you, for one.”

Zayn can’t help his pleased smile, or the warmth that settles in him. It’s not like Niall’s never said that he’s important to him before, but it’s always nice to hear. “Well, now you get me and Ireland, for a while.”

“You couldn’t stay here long, though.”

“Saying I don’t fit in here?” Zayn rests his hand on his heart. “’m offended. I think I’m even getting paler.”

“Nah, you’re too pretty for us.” Niall’s finger traces over his cheekbone. “But, you couldn’t be away from your family for long.” Zayn can’t really argue. “And anyway, you’ll never be a proper fisherman. Can’t even watch a fish struggle.”

He can hear Niall’s fondness in his voice, even if it’s hard to make out the smile he knows is there. “Yeah, I’d be an awful provider. Maybe that’s what Becca saw. No, babe, you can’t have mammoth today, it looked sad.” It comes out more bitter than he’d expected, here in the sunlight. Usually it only sounds that bitter in his head, late at night when he can’t sleep for being alone.

“Fuck her. We aren’t cavemen.” Niall’s voice is sharp, his hand heavy on Zayn’s forehead. “And that’s what you’ve got me for, yeah? Keep you in mammoth.”

Zayn laughs. “Thanks babe. Good to know someone’ll be providing for me.”

“Always.” It sounds like a promise too, like it’s echoing in the seagull’s cries and the waves. Then, “Fuck, Harry, get off your phone, you got a bite.”

“What? Oh, fuck me!” Harry swears, and Zayn sits up to see Harry caught between scrambling for the phone he’d dropped in his surprise and the rod that’s jerking against the railing.

“Is this why you stay off your phone while fishing?” Zayn asks, trying to stay as innocent and deadpan as possible when Harry’s flipping him off and Niall’s cracking up beside him.

\---

The days all feel like that, like a haze of laugher and ease, so they blend together mostly. Zayn barely even turns his phone on—he’s basically always with Niall, and when he’s not Harry’s usually around. Half the time he doesn’t even know what time it is (which, according to Niall, is not a big change, but Zayn insists he usually knows what time it is. It doesn’t make him more on time ever, but he knows).

But now, he doesn’t even think about time. He measures days by Niall’s grin from the kitchen when he stumbles out of bed, by the twist of Harry’s smirk as they flirt playfully in the bakery while Zayn makes his way through his thesis work, by the sights Niall shows him, cathedrals and little hole-in-the-wall bookstores and the places Niall grew up and other treasures. He measures nights by which girls or, occasionally, boys, Harry ends up going home with, or what music played in the pub that night, or the face Niall had made when he tried to get Zayn to dance again, pleading a thin veneer over laughter before he shrugs and grabs some other girl to twirl around the floor. Other night’s it’s the song Niall’s playing with as they lounge in the house, Zayn reading to the backdrop of Niall’s guitar. It’s easy, letting himself be led, guided through the day, like it’s a dream where things happen but he never has to take action.

So it’s a bit of a surprise when he realizes there’s only a week left before he’s headed back to the US. It’s not regret exactly that he realizes it, because he’s ready to see his family again, to get back to Louis and his cats, but he doesn’t want to leave, either.

“But you’ll miss me most, right?” Harry asks from the backseat of Greg’s car, when Zayn points this out. “I’ve got to be more missable than cats.”

“His cats are adorable,” Niall argues.

“So am I.” Harry sounds like he’s pouting, and sure enough when Zayn twists to look at him, his lower lip is jutting out and his eyes are huge. “Aren’t I, Zayn?”

“Not adorable.” Zayn shakes his head. Niall’s adorable, or cute, or any of those words; the sort of hot that you could curl up with. Harry’s…Zayn lets his eyes skate down Harry’s body. “You can have sexy.”

“I’ll take it.” Harry grins, dimples deep. “Coming from you, must be a compliment.”

“Saying I’m picky?”

“Saying takes one to know one,” Harry replies with a wink. Zayn chuckles.

“Yeah, well, you’ll just have to come visit so we can compare,” he suggests. He’d like Harry to come, he thinks. Louis’s been demanding to meet this new person in his life, and he sort of wants to see who would win when pitting Harry’s wide-eyed charm and secret sneakiness against Louis’s noise and aggression.

“Yeah, I have to. Been meaning to visit Niall for ages.” Harry hesitates, glances at his phone. “I mean, I’m gonna stay in London for a while after this, I think. Then I was thinking France, maybe? Or wherever I end up. But America one day, sure.”

“We’ll be waiting with bated breath,” Zayn drawls, and Harry sticks out his tongue. Zayn sticks his out back.

“I don’t know why we haven’t gone here earlier,” Niall interrupts. “All Harry Potter nerds need to go to the Cliffs of Moher.”

Zayn turns his stuck out tongue to Niall. “You’re just as much a Harry Potter nerd as I am.”

“Never said I wasn’t, did I?” Niall retorts. He takes a hand off the wheel and reaches towards Zayn’s tongue; Zayn retracts it before he can touch. “I’ve just already been.”

“So many times,” Harry adds. “He dragged me as soon as the seventh book came out.”

“Had to make sure no Horcruxes were there,” Niall agrees. “Still haven’t found any, but I’m holding out hope.”

“Yeah! And now there are three of us, like them!” Harry chirps. He’s even put away his phone, so he must be excited.

“Our very own golden trio,” Zayn agrees. The countryside going by is so green it hurts his eyes, almost, neat divisions of fields and hills, with trees dotted in and stone rises. To their right the sea stretches out, painfully blue to contrast with the green fields.

“So, we’ve already done houses—”

“I still don’t think I’m a—”

“Shut up, Haz, we decided,” Niall goes on, like they hadn’t spent the first hour of the trip debating Hogwarts houses for each of them. “So which of the trio are we?”

“I’m Harry. It’s in the name,” Harry declares.

“Well, you’re Hermione,” Niall tells Zayn. “The smart one, aren’t you? So guess I’m Ron.”

“That was easy,” Harry says, leaning back. “If you don’t mind being Ron.”

“Why should he mind?” Zayn asks. Niall glances at him, but this is something that’s always annoyed Zayn. “Ron’s the best. He’s, like, loyal and all. He’s the heart, yeah? It’s important.” Zayn reaches out to nudge gently at Niall’s shoulders. “So that’s about right. You’re the heart.”

“I always liked Hermione,” Niall replies, but he’s smiling, almost to himself, and his cheeks are red. He shoots Zayn a quick sidelong glance before returning his attention to the road. “Brains are sexy, yeah?”

“No, Niall, I’m sexy,” Harry corrects, and Niall flips him off, laughing.

\---

They make it to the Cliffs without anyone killing Harry, which Niall apparently counts as a win, and they all tumble out.

Zayn’s first impression is wind, so hard and wild that Niall grabs for his snapback to keep it on, even in the parking lot. His second impression, when they’ve climbed the stairs so they’re standing just below the railing, is awe.

The cliffs drop off into wild surf, as dramatic as Harry Potter promised. Despite the railing and the touristiness of cliff’s edge, it’s still wild, grand and untamable, and it makes Zayn think of old Celtic legends he’s read, of a world before the Romans came, or the English, and brought their civilization with them.

“Wave hi to New York, Zayn!”

Zayn laughs and only stumbles a step as Niall lands on his back, his arms around his neck and his thighs around Zayn’s hips. “Gonna go over the edge like that,” he tells him, grabbing Niall’s legs to support him.

“Nah, you wouldn’t drop me.” Niall says it absolutely surely, and it makes something warm turn in Zayn’s stomach, almost as warm as Niall is pressed against his back. “Come on, got to wave to New York! Next thing over there.”

“Can’t hold you up and wave.”

Zayn can almost hear Niall roll his eyes, but he hops off Zayn anyway, enough so he’s resting his chin on Zayn’s shoulder instead. “There.” He waves his hand wildly across the sea. “Hi New York!”

It’s utterly ridiculous, but Zayn waves too, then blows a kiss. It gets a delighted chuckle from Niall, and Zayn has to echo it too. The laughter’s caught in the wind, whipped out to sea, and it feels like everything else in Zayn is going out there too, all the wonder about Becca and the too-empty beds and the worry about his thesis and the _you don’t know what you want_ that he can’t stop thinking about. There’s just the wind and the surf and Niall warm against his side, their cheeks almost together, and how is Zayn supposed to do anything other than laugh?

“Hey, guys!” Harry calls, and Zayn turns to Harry with his phone raised, grinning broadly behind it. “Beautiful.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, runs a hand through his hair self-consciously. “My hair’s probably a mess,” he demurs, even though it’s pulled back in anticipation of the winds.

“Doesn’t make a difference,” Niall assures him. He lets go, then bounces off to Harry, to look at the pictures. Zayn looks back out over the ocean, the raging surf, the wildness of it. It makes him feel small in the best way, makes him remember that there are things so much bigger than him. He lets out a long breath, and the wind takes it and carries it away, off to America. Off home.

“Zayn?” Niall calls, and he turns. Niall’s standing a few paces away, watching him with one of his softer smiles on. Zayn tucks the loose strands of hair behind his ear, suddenly conscious of them. Niall just looks good in the wind like this, his cheeks flushed hectically. “Haz wants to go climb the tower.”

Zayn follows Harry’s gaze to the stone tower sitting a ways up the cliff. It looks sturdy, but he’s already feeling a little on edge standing behind these rails, what with people up and down the cliffs climbing over them to get closer to the edge. He’s not sure he wants to be up higher. “Um—”

“Come on.” Niall’s hand’s in his, suddenly, their fingers intertwining. “It’ll be okay, promise.”

Niall’s thumb runs against his skin, the callouses just a hint of roughness, and Zayn can feel himself let out a breath. “Okay.”

The tower is sick, and Zayn even leans over the edge a bit, squeezing tight to Niall’s hand as an anchor, to solid ground and to the dare of the heights and against the wind.

\---

They wander the cliffs a little longer, before Niall starts fidgeting out of hunger. They drag Harry and his camera away, then, back to the car, because Niall refuses to get food at the gift shop when they have the food Maura made them in the car and also it’s a “fucking trap, to get all the tourists, pay ten euro for a sandwich.”

So instead, they drive a little way back, and then Niall stops in what looks like the middle of fucking nowhere, because apparently it’s his mum’s second cousin once removed-in-law’s farm and he’d be totally cool with them having a picnic in his fields.

Zayn grumbles mainly for form’s sake, but he trails after Harry and Niall as they wander close to a copse of trees, Harry holding a picnic basket, Niall with a blanket under his arm and his guitar over his shoulder.

And it is nice, to sit on the blanket and eat and chat under the sun. It’s not as horribly humid or hot as it would be in New Haven this time of year, so it’s actually pleasant to be outside, to take his hair out of its ponytail and tip his face up to the sun.

After they eat, Zayn lies back on the blanket, closes his eyes. Niall’s sitting a little ways away, strumming a melody on his guitar that Zayn vaguely recognizes, and Harry’s lying next to him, scrolling through the pictures he took.

“Fuck’s sake, Harry, can’t you ever put your phone away?” Niall demands, when its buzzing breaks the serenity of the moment, and Zayn almost considers opening his eyes.

“I’m sorry my friend needs me,” Harry retorts. “Just because I am in high demand—”

“Bet you are,” Zayn inserts lazily, and Niall snorts.

“Is it Liam again?” he asks. “He having more of a crisis?”

“Hey, he’s going through some stuff.” Harry’s voice softens a little. “I think he doesn’t feel like he can talk to anyone else about it, ‘cause it’s too personal.”

“You two are that close?” Niall asks. Harry must nod, because Niall goes on, “You hooked up with him yet?”

“No.” Harry sighs. “Sadly.”

“Is that a thing you do with all your friends?” Zayn asks. He opens his eyes, rolls over so he can see them both. Harry’s put his phone down, but he doesn’t seem embarrassed by the question, though Niall’s got the look on he only gets when he’s nervous. Zayn doesn’t see it often, and it’s hard to recognize, but it’s there.

“Got to consummate the friendship somehow,” Harry confirms, grinning. “You waiting for your turn?”

Zayn gestures down his body. “You couldn’t handle me, babe.”

“I can handle a lot.” Harry winks. “Maybe you couldn’t handle me.”

“So, does that mean you’ve hooked up?” Zayn continues, glancing at Niall. Niall’s still working hard on his fingering, his head ducked. Harry shoots a look at him, and maybe he meant it to be subtle, but the answer’s there. “Oh.”

“Long time ago,” Niall says, quickly. “He decided the best way to help me through my sexuality crisis was to suck my cock.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Harry breaks in. “Men everywhere should thank me. Don’t want to deprive them of that.” He pauses, then, “You did ask, Zayn.”

Zayn tries to nod. Or he does nod. It’s not like—it’s just an image he hadn’t expected, the two of them together. How the thought of it makes him tamp down on a wave of arousal, and a wave of something else that’s hotter and fiercer. But that’s…he and Harry are just flirting for fun, and Niall—he knows Niall has sex. Niall has a lot of sex, he’s seen him pull plenty. He just…doesn’t think about it usually.

“Anyway. Liam. Do I ever get to meet him, if he’s replacing me as your best friend?” Niall says. Zayn lets out a relieved breath. He doesn’t want to talk about that anymore, he finds.

“No one could replace you, Nialler. Never could get by without you, could I?” Harry grins, wide and innocent, like you’d never guess he’d been talking about sucking his best friend’s dick a second ago. Not that Zayn’s thinking about that.

Niall’s response is to grin, then shifts to a new song. “Without a little help, from my friends,” Harry sings along with the guitar. “Precisely.” He wriggles around a little. “And, like. I’ll see if I can figure out a way for you to meet Liam sometimes. Facetime with him, at least.”

“Legend!”

They lapse into quiet again, but Zayn can’t stop thinking about it. It’s so stupid, that he can’t. Maybe it’s just that while he knows Niall has sex, he doesn’t talk about it, really. He just leaves with people, or mentions the people he’s seeing offhand. He’s a gentleman, he’d told Louis once, when he’d demanded details; he wasn’t going to kiss and tell. So even knowing anything about Niall’s cock is…odd. That’s it. Probably.

“What is it with this song, anyway?” This time, it’s Harry who breaks the silence, but Zayn’s happy for it. Anything to distract him. “You play it all the time.”

Zayn pulls it together enough to concentrate, hears the melody of the song Niall’d played the first night on stage. He played it a lot elsewhere too, Zayn realizes, thinking back. _Black is the color of my true love’s hair_ , and all.

“Can’t a man have a favorite song?”

“Last time you had a favorite ballad it was an ode to beer,” Harry replies. “What’s with this one?”

Niall shrugs, and glances at his guitar, even though it’s clear he doesn’t need to. “Dunno. Reminds me of someone, I guess.”

“Oh realllllly?” Harry draws out the word, sitting up to lean forward. His eyes are glinting with mischief. “You have a true love, Niall?”

“Shut up.”

“With black hair and pink lips and gentle hands?” Harry keeps teasing. “That’s a lot of clues.”

“Shut up, Haz,” Niall repeats shortly.

“Fine. I’m just impressed! You’ve never been in love before.” Harry leans back. Niall’s flushed, with annoyance or embarrassment Zayn can’t tell, but it makes Zayn want to hit Harry, or lash out somehow. But he wants to know more about this too, because Niall’s never mentioned anything about being in love.

“Yeah well. First time for everything, isn’t there?”

“Look at you, growing up! Gonna leave me behind, aren’t you? Can I be flower boy at your wedding?”

“He doesn’t—I mean, no, you’d be a shit flower boy—”

“I’d be an excellent flower boy. And you and this black-haired lover of yours, this boy with his sweet face and gentle hands, should know—”

“Harry—”

“I’m just saying, if you love the ground whereon he stands, I should know who it is—”

“Leave off.” Zayn snaps. He doesn’t know why Harry can’t see it, but Niall’s got that nervous look on, and he’s holding his guitar tight, and he’s not going to let Harry tease him if it’s actually getting to him. He doesn’t care who Niall loves, not enough to make Niall look like that, ever. “He doesn’t have to say anything if he doesn’t want to.”

“But it’s so romantic!” Harry whines. “Singing love songs to woo this unnamed person with black hair who always touches him gently—”

“Then you can deal with your own curiosity.” Zayn glares, and Harry can’t stand up to it any better than unruly undergrads can.

“Fine.” Harry sighs, and pulls his phone back out, his lower lip jutting into a pout.

Zayn doesn’t really give a fuck if his feelings are hurt, though. Instead, he wiggles closer to Niall, so he can wrap a hand around his ankle, just light enough to get his attention. “You okay?”

“’m fine. It’s just teasing, I know.” Niall smiles at him, and it’s there in his eyes like usual, so Zayn relaxes, as Niall plays a few more bars. “And he’s right, you know. I don’t, like. I’ve never been in love before.”

“Just means it matters more when it happens.” Zayn shrugs. “He must be special, yeah?”

“Very,” Niall’s eyes are dreamy, as he looks at Zayn, thinking about that guy. “Best person I know.”

Zayn ignores the twist in his stomach at that, because Niall’s always enthusiastic about everyone, and just because he usually says he thinks Zayn’s the best doesn’t mean he can’t think this other guy’s the best. “Long as he doesn’t steal you away from me.” He adds a little laugh, just for good measure.

“No one ever could,” Niall swears, and it shouldn’t, but it makes something relax in Zayn’s stomach, so he squeezes Niall’s ankle again, just in thanks, before he lets his hand drop again.

“Hey,” he asks, out of the blue. “Why’s that there?” He nods to the circle of trees in the center of the field, sticking up randomly amid the grass. He’d been curious about it when they got here, but he’d forgotten in favor of eating, but now he needs to change the subject.

“Hm?”

Zayn points, lazily, and Niall’s grin flashes. “Why, that’s a fairy circle, that is,” he replies, his accent thickening in a way that has to be on purpose. “Can’t disturb it, don’t want to risk the wrath of the good folk.”

“Even though it’s in the middle of a pasture?”

“Pasture, field, wherever.” Niall shakes his head. “Can’t risk it. No telling what they’d do to you.”

Zayn snorts, but Niall’s gaze is wide and guileless. Which doesn’t necessarily say much, because he’s good at an innocent face and has plenty of mischief in him, but still. “Really? You believe in fairies?”

Niall shrugs. “Sure. I’m Irish, it’s in my blood.”

Zayn tilts his head back so he can look at Harry. “Do you?”

Harry purses his lips, considering. “I mean, I don’t think you can ever really know, you know?” he answers slowly. “Like, there’s always the possibility.”

“Really concrete,” Niall tells Harry, who makes a face back. “Why, Zayn. Do you not believe in fairies? Be careful,” he warns, “Say no, they might come just to prove you wrong. Take you underhill, make you one of them. They do like pretty things…”

Zayn laughs, but…there’s something here, in the air, in the wild cliffs they just left. In the green green grass, and the circle of trees standing for who knows how long. In Niall’s serious face and dancing eyes, and the music he’s still picking out, like it’s coming from the land itself. If fairies were anywhere, they’d be here, he thinks, and because Niall’s looking at him like that, expectant and smile, he rolls his eyes, lifts his hands, and claps.

Niall’s eyebrows draw together. “What’s that?”

“That’s—” Zayn lets out a long breath. “Clap if you believe in fairies, yeah? Like, in Peter Pan?”

“I don’t remember that.” Niall’s whole face contorts as he thinks, clearly disappointed in his memory.

“It’s in the book,” Harry replies, and claps too, twice. “No fairies dying on my watch!”

“Oh, of course, because you two read the books of Disney movies.” Niall rolls his eyes, but he claps loudly. “Nerds.”

“Hey!” Harry protests, and then there’s a shower of grass covering Niall, who splutters for a second. The grass is peppered in his hair, over his shoulders, and his eyes dance as he sets aside his guitar to properly attack Harry, and yeah, Zayn thinks. Maybe he could believe in fairies.

\---

Dublin is Zayn’s last weekend, because Niall won’t let him leave without seeing it, and anyway, Zayn does want to see the Book of Kells, he can admit. So they take the train up Saturday morning, Zayn muttering his discontent with the sun, the hour, everything, as he tries to hide from life in the curve of Niall’s shoulder. Niall doesn’t object, it seems, because his fingers start twisting through the hair at the nape of his neck. It doesn’t make up for the fact that it’s earlier than Zayn wants to be alive while on vacation, but it’s almost enough.

They get to Dublin by eleven, and Zayn follows Niall and Harry onto a tram that eventually ends up at Niall’s cousin’s apartment, where they’re crashing. It feels small—there’s only one bedroom—but Zayn doesn’t have time to consider that, because Niall doesn’t let them do more than drop their overnight bags, though, before they’re out again.

It’s almost disconcerting, being in a proper city again, after the relative quiet of Galway. Zayn’s suddenly not the only person not lily-white, and there’s loud cars and honking and its busy and hurried in a way that says ‘home’ to Zayn, even if it’s not New York or anything.

Zayn spends a long time gaping at the Book of Kells, probably longer than Niall or Harry would want, staring at the pages under glass, those centuries old records. He’s dealt with old documents before, of course, but it doesn’t make it any less amazing, the artistry of the words and text.

“It’s just—look how beautiful,” he murmurs, when Niall comes up next to him.

“Yeah,” Niall agrees, his chin resting on Zayn’s shoulder. “I know. Told you the Irish do some things right.”

Zayn turns his head far enough to kiss Niall’s cheek, because it’s right there. “They do a lot of stuff right.”

Then they’re up in the library, and Zayn’s eyes go wide enough that Niall starts laughing at him, but it’s two stories high and there’s a ladder and Zayn thinks he could live here forever. When he says as much, Niall nods. “Bet you could,” he says immediately. “Forget to feed yourself and everything.”

“Not with you coming to remind me,” Zayn informs him. Niall nods.

“Fair ‘nough. Selfie in front of your favorite philosopher?” Zayn rolls his eyes, but he lets himself be pulled over to a bust, and leans in and makes a face at the camera while Niall fusses.

“Don’t know how you do it.” Niall wrinkles his nose at the screen. “Do you ever take a bad picture?”

“Sure, think my mom has one once.”

“I don’t believe it.” Niall shakes his head firmly. “The cheekbones always win out, don’t they?” His fingers brush lightly over Zayn’s cheeks, whisper-light, and Zayn can feel his breath catch.

“Like you’re any worse off,” he teases back, because he doesn’t know what else to do, and rubs at Niall’s chin, at the hint of scruff on his jaw, barely visible. Niall’s hand drops, but other than that he’s very still. “Handsome lad like yourself.”

“Sure, but I’m not a model.” Niall replies, and Zayn can feel his smile, feel it like it’s under Zayn’s skin too, fizzing with heat and sunshine.

He’s touched Niall like this a thousand times before, casual friendly things. He doesn’t know why this feels so different. “We should go find Harry,” Zayn says, stepping back.

Niall shakes his head, so Zayn’s hand falls. “Yeah,” he agrees. His gaze drops for a second, then it flicks back up to Zayn’s eyes. “Yeah, come on, lots more to see!”

\---

Then it’s Christ Church and St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Harry reading aloud from the pamphlets as Niall mocks every word they say, and Zayn just looks, at the soaring ceilings and the bells tolling and the richness of it all, the history he’s never seen before, really. It makes him want to finally take his parents up on their offer to go see his family in Pakistan, to see the history there, where it’s not so academic. Maybe next year, or something. Maybe he can bring Niall, and it’ll be Zayn explaining stories on the walls, Zayn who guides Niall through a world he doesn’t know.

The Guinness factory is next, which Zayn’s utterly unsurprised by, but it’s actually interesting despite his teasing that this is really Niall’s home. And it lets him sit down at last, up in the skybar drinking his pint, with the whole city stretching out under him. It’s not like at the cliffs—the glass feels solider for one—but still, he grabs at Niall’s hand, just in case. And Niall doesn’t say anything about it, just squeezes once before going back to arguing about Harry about some place called Copper Faced Jack’s.

\---

“Zayn, aren’t you ready yet?” Harry moans from the living room. “You look breathtaking, I’m sure. Now come on, I want to go out.”

“Can’t rush perfection,” Zayn calls back, and fusses a little more with his hair. He’s let it loose, which is always a bit of a risk, but he thinks it turned out well, curling around his ears and at his neck, with a nice loose wave.

“But Niall and I have been ready for twenty minutes!” Harry retorts. “You don’t even have to properly primp, can’t take you this long.”

“Just for that, I’m redoing my hair.” There’s a yelp, that’s probably Niall hitting Harry, which makes Zayn grin into the mirror. He gives himself a final survey, then nods, and heads out, grabbing his leather jacket from the top of his bag as he goes.

Niall and Harry are waiting on the couch, looking like they’re about thirty seconds away from getting into a slapfight. But they both look up when Zayn comes in. Harry looks relieved, but Niall—Zayn can’t quite figure out the expression that flashes over Niall’s face before he blinks and there’s just a smile.

“Looking good, Malik,” he grins, and hops to his feet.

“You too.” Zayn’s not kidding, either. Niall spends so much of his life dressed like an overgrown frat boy that Zayn sometimes forgets how nice he cleans up. But damn, he does clean up nice—although the frat boy thing’s got it’s own appeal—in tight jeans and a white undershirt with a button down with the sleeves cut off over it, so his arms are on full display. His hair’s done up, just the right edge of messy. It’s—well, Zayn’s sure he won’t have any trouble pulling tonight. “You looking to hook up tonight?”

“Like anyone’d look at me with you right there.” Niall retorts. Zayn pauses in the act of shrugging on his jacket, turns so he can make sure he’s looking right at Niall, because he says things like that far too often.

“Other way around, isn’t it?” he replies. Niall’s lips curve up into a smile that’s almost shy. Maybe it’s his shirt, or the lighting, but his eyes are very, very blue.

“Yes, we’re all hot,” Harry agrees, and throws his arms around both their shoulders. Zayn, not quite as used to Harry’s habit of hug-ambushes as Niall, stumbles, but Niall’s laughing and he catches himself enough. “Let’s go share our hotness with the world!”

“You do believe in that, don’t you?” Niall retorts, as he and Zayn maneuver them out of the door, Harry still draped over them like a particularly large cape. “Sharing your hotness with the world.”

“It’d be a shame to do otherwise,” Harry agrees cheerfully. “Is there a reason you don’t want to share yours, Niall?”

“Thought that’s what I was doing,” Niall shoots back. It’s not really an answer to the question he didn’t answer before, Zayn notices, and tries his best to remember the route back to the flat. Not that he thinks Niall will abandon him, because he knows Zayn’s shit at directions, but he’s never seen Niall leave a club alone if he doesn’t want to, and he’s dressed like—well, he’s dressed like that streak won’t be broken.

\---

By the time they hit the club, Zayn is properly smashed. Drinks keep appearing in front of him, or maybe he’s buying them, but either way he’s in love with the world, and everyone in it. He’s in fucking Ireland, and Niall’s here and the music’s in his veins and he doesn’t have to think about anything at all.

“Let’s dance!” He exclaims as they get in.

Harry laughs. “Thought you didn’t dance.”

“I can awkward white boy dance with the best of them,” Zayn retorts, and he’s drunk enough that he doesn’t care. He grabs the nearest hand to him—which happens to be Harry’s, but he’s looking at Niall over Harry’s shoulder, and he’s still right there—and tugs him forward.

They all hit the dance floor in a triangle, and Zayn’s headbopping and trying his best to move to the rhythm and he knows he’s failing and he doesn’t care because at least Harry looks like he’s trying not to fall over at any given moment. Niall, though—Niall’s always got music in him, or whatever, because he’s moving his hips like he feels it, and Zayn has a moment where his mouth goes dry as he watches. Niall looks up, meets his gaze, and his eyes are still so blue and they go wide and there’s laughter in them and god, Zayn loves him so much, that he gave him this freedom, this moment when he feels like he’s floating free.

“Love you, bro!” He yells, and Niall grins back. But that’s not enough, that’s still too far away, so Zayn throws an arm around his shoulder and presses a messy kiss to his cheek. “Thanks.”

“Anything for you, Zayn,” Niall replies. His gaze flicks from Zayn’s eyes down then back up again, and his lips are pink and smiling and Zayn could kiss him. “Wow, you’re smashed, aren’t you?”

“So smashed,” Zayn agrees. Niall smiles, but it’s not a proper Niall smile, Zayn doesn’t like it, and he doesn’t like it that Niall lets go of him either. “You never said if you wanted to get laid tonight!” He yells, over the music.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Niall shouts back. He glances over Zayn’s shoulder. “Looks like Harry might, though.”

Zayn glances over his shoulder. Harry’s found a girl to dance with, who seems to be able to ignore the slight hazard of his limbs for the way his chest is gleaming with sweat under the half-open shirt.

“Cheers!” He yells at Harry, and Harry grins back, winks over the girl’s shoulder. “I need another drink.”

It’s all a bit of a blur after that—dancing with girls, with Harry and Niall in an awkward grinding line that had them all falling apart into laughter within thirty seconds, with Harry. Laughing with some guy at the bar with hair so red it had to be dyed, licking a tequila shot off his wrist and looking up to see Niall watching him like he’s afraid he’d do it wrong. Niall’s hips, moving in those smooth circles, dancing like maybe he’d fuck.

But not tonight, apparently, because Niall tumbles into the cab after him, and Harry’s there too, even if his hair’s messed up and his shirt’s even less buttoned then before and his eyes are bright and satisfied.

“Good night?” Niall asks, and Harry grins. Zayn reaches out, tries to go for a fist bump, but his hand doesn’t want to stay up, so it falls into Niall’s lap. Niall laughs, and Zayn grins too, because Niall’s laughter always makes him want to smile.

They make it back to the apartment, then up the stairs. Harry falls onto the couch with barely another word, and apparently passes out right there, because there’s definitely snoring.

“Is he alive?” Zayn asks.

“Yeah.” Niall snorts, and gets an arm around Zayn’s waist to pull him into the bedroom. “He’s never been able to hold his alcohol. Not that you’re much better,” he teases, as Zayn stumbles. “Not up to an Irish night, are you?”

“Hey, I had a lot,” Zayn objects, but the bed does look very nice.

“You—um, Zayn? What are you doing?” Zayn pauses in the act of unbuttoning his jeans, to look in confusion at Niall, because he sounds hoarse and Zayn wants to go to bed.

“Getting ready for bed? Want to sleep.”

“Oh. Right.” Niall swallows. “Um, I’ll go—I guess I’ll crash on the floor. Night.”

“Don’t be stupid. Bed’s big enough for both of us.” Zayn lies back, to demonstrate. “You shouldn’t sleep on the floor.”

“I think I’d better.”

Niall still looks so good, but more than that he looks warm, comfortable, like he could fill up a too-empty bed, and he takes care of Zayn when he’s drunk, and he gave Zayn this, this feeling of freedom.

“No. Want you to be comfortable. Sleeeeeep,” he whines, and Niall chuckles. Which means he’s taken by surprise when Zayn grabs his wrist and tugs him down onto the bed too, because Zayn’s clever when he wants to be, Louis says. Well, he says he’s a sneaky bastard, but Zayn figures it’s the same thing. Whatever, it got Niall onto the bed.

Or, more accurately, onto him, because he fell mostly on top of him, a knee planted between Zayn’s thighs. “See?” Zayn grins at him, pokes at his chest. It ends up with his hand just sort of resting on Niall’s chest. His heartbeat’s going awfully fast. “It’s more comfortable here with me.”

“Not debating that.” Zayn makes his best pouting face, and Niall laughs. “Okay, fine. Fine. Let me up so I can brush my teeth so one of us doesn’t taste like ass in the morning.”

“Long as you come back, Nialler,” Zayn agrees, and lets go.

Niall pauses before he gets up, just looking down at Zayn’s face, more serious than he should be when Zayn’s feeling so good. “Always,” he says, simply, then gets up to go rummage in his bag.

By the time he’s come back, Zayn’s managed to get under the blankets, and he’s more than a little asleep as he feels Niall slide in under the blankets too.

But he’s too far away, Zayn decides. It’s been forever since he had someone to actually fill up the bed, and it’s Niall, and Zayn never wants to be far away from Niall. He’s in the process of getting closer when he must fall asleep, because his last thought is that Niall’s still too far.

\---

“Wakey wakey, sleepy heads!”

Zayn groans, and burrows closer into pillow. Or maybe it’s not a pillow, because it’s warm and harder than a pillow, but it’s comfortable and Zayn doesn’t want to wake up.

“Come on, up and at ‘em!”

“Fuck off, Haz,” comes a voice from just above Zayn’s head. Niall’s voice. Like it’s Niall’s arm around him, his hand resting on Zayn’s back, and Niall’s body Zayn’s basically curled up into.

Zayn considers, briefly, thinking about how this might be awkward, but then abandons it in order to curl closer into Niall and go back to sleep.

“Nope, you said we have a schedule and we have to stick to it, time to get up!”

There’s movement, then a bright light through Zayn’s eyes. Zayn makes a disapproving noise, and tries to cover his eyes in Niall’s shoulder. Niall’s arm curves around him, drawing him in. It’s comfortable, even for a morning; the bed feels full and Niall’s warm and easy and a really good pillow.

“Two minutes, then I’m coming back with ice water,” Harry warns, then the door closes again. Good. Zayn can go back to sleep, now.

“He really will,” Niall says regretfully. Zayn shakes his head. “No, he will. And he’s right, we should be up, lots to see!”

At that, Zayn lifts his head. Cheerful people are the worst. He glares at Niall, ignores how he’s flushed with sleep and his hair’s charmingly messy, because he’s smiling, and Zayn might not be hungover but that’s not okay. “Or we could sleep,” he informs Niall, and drops his head back onto his chest. He hasn’t slept like this with anyone but Becca in a long time, so the hair at Niall’s chest feels a bit odd, but it’s not off-putting.

“Zayn.” Zayn murmurs his distaste again, nestles closer onto Niall so he won’t move. “Zayn, fuck, you—I’ve got to get up.”

“Fine,” Zayn rolls over, so Niall’s freed. He feels like he should be offended with how Niall doesn’t want to cuddle, but he’s not awake enough to worry about that. “Go ‘way.”

“I’m gonna—shower. Yeah.” The bed shifts, and Niall must be off the bed. “I’ll wake you up when I’m out.”

“Hmph,” Zayn agrees, and throws his arm over his eyes to cover them.

It doesn’t work, though. Too much has happened, and the bed smells like Niall, and Niall’s warmth still lingering under the covers. He’s not going to get back to sleep, with that contrast.

So he opens his eyes, groans again because it’s too bright and early and fuck everything, and rolls out of bed. Niall usually takes quick showers, Zayn’s noticed in the past month, but Zayn’s been scrolling through twitter for a while when he comes out, a towel wrapped around his waist. He’s pink all over from the heat, and Zayn can’t help how his gaze drags across his chest, then down for a quick second, before back to his face.

“Thought you’d still be asleep,” Niall points out. Zayn shrugs. What’s he supposed to say, the bed’s too big and not nearly as comfortable without you in it? “Hangover?”

“Not too bad.” Zayn stretches as he gets up. “Gonna shower.”

“Good, ‘cause you reek,” Niall teases as he passes. Zayn shoves idly at him, then hops in the shower.

After brushing his teeth, a long shower, and pulling on jeans and a t-shirt, Zayn feels at least a little more human. By the time he’s out, Niall must have finished getting ready, because he’s waiting with Harry in the living room.

“Took you long enough!” Harry bounces too his feet. He’s probably a morning person, and Zayn just hasn’t noticed because he’s never been awake enough to catch him. Zayn always knew there was something suspicious about him. “What were you doing in there?” He makes a jerking off motion with his hands.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Or washing my hair.”

“Takes you that long?”

“Some people actually wash their hair,” Niall tells him, and hands Zayn a to-go cup that smells wonderfully like coffee. “Here, ran down to get you this.”

Zayn grabs the cup, brings it to his face and inhales. “You’re my hero,” he breathes.

“Doesn’t matter if he wanked or not, I think he just came,” Harry observes. Zayn ignores him in favor of taking a drink, and he can’t hold in his moan.

“Shut up, Harry,” Niall retorts. He sounds a little breathless. “That’s between a man and his coffee.” But he nudges Zayn’s side, anyway. “You alive now?”

“Yeah.” Zayn takes another sip. He can already feel the caffeine working through him. He might have a slight problem, but it’s not like every grad student doesn’t. “Yeah, ‘m good. Thanks.”

He smiles his thanks at Niall, who shrugs. “Know your blood’s more coffee than anything else, by now. Need you ready to face the day.”

“I’m facing.” Zayn blinks, but he is, now. He doesn’t even feel the need to glare at Harry’s knowing grin. “Okay, what are we doing today?”

Today, it seems, is more Dublin sightseeing—Dublin Castle and the old jail, where somehow Harry and Niall combined get them in without waiting in line for tickets, and another church and then the Jameson Factory, where Harry makes a face as he sips his free samples before handing them over to Niall, who downs them easily, smacking his lips as Zayn laughs.

Then they’re back to the apartment to grab their bags, then back on the train. Zayn, for once, doesn’t drift off, instead takes advantage of the free wifi to check his email on his phone before he pulls out his book. Niall and Harry’s quiet argument over the album they’re listening to on a shared iPod is a nice backdrop to his book—until, that is, Niall insists Harry’s an idiot, and hands the earbud to Zayn for backup, and Zayn has to join in the bickering.

\---

“Looking forward to going home?” Harry asks, as they settle into a table at Taafe’s with their pints, a few nights later.

“Yeah.” Zayn takes a sip of his beer. It’s weird, being here without Niall next to him, or around. It’s weird not having Niall around, period, after weeks of him always there, a constant bright presence in the corner of Zayn’s awareness, always there to anchor him or buoy him up as needs be. But Niall’s out with the band, and Zayn’s glad he’s going to be here for a night of Niall playing properly, not just messing around when there’s no one on stage. “Like, it’s been great here, and all. But I’m ready to be home again.”

“Hmm.” Harry hums, but there’s no recognition in his face. “I don’t know. I’m going back to London after this, and I’ll be happy to see people. But…” Harry shrugs. “I dunno. The world’s so big, you know? Why stay in one place?”

“Because it’s home.” Zayn doesn’t have more to say than that, can’t quite explain it. He’s a homebody, is all. Traveling is fun, seeing more of the world, and he still likes the idea of Pakistan one day, of other places where he has a connection—but the exploration hasn’t been why he’s here. He doesn’t think he’d have liked it half so much if it hadn’t been for Niall’s enthusiasm, his stories about every place they went, his hand in Zayn’s as they stood on top of the tower and everything else blew away. “You don’t want to go see Liam?”

“Oh, well, yeah.” Harry’s stammering, and Zayn doesn’t bother holding back his smirk. “Or, I think so. I haven’t seen him since his crisis.”

Zayn’s about to ask more, but then there’s movement in the front, and Zayn glances over to see Niall and Joseph and a man and woman Zayn thinks might have been there the first day climbing onto the low stage. Niall settles on a stool in the corner, fussing with his guitar until he’s got it tuned, then looks up, surveying the crowd.

“Niall!” Harry yells, and Niall’s gaze fixes on them. He grins, a quick, almost bashful flash of teeth, and from here Zayn can see his foot tapping, how he’s shifting restlessly in his chair.

“I’ll be right back,” Zayn tells Harry, then gets up. He pushes his way through to the bar to get another drink, then back through the crowd, throwing a few elbows until he makes it up to the stage.

“Thought this was missing,” he tells Niall, edging around the stage until he’s next to him.

“You’re a blessing, Zayn Malik,” Niall informs him, and takes it thankfully.

“Consider it payback for the coffee.” Zayn pauses, then. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Gonna give you a proper goodbye performance, don’t worry.” Niall pats his guitar, like a comfort blanket. “See you off right.”

“I’m not leaving for another day.”

“Still.” Niall smiles, reaches out to pat at Zayn’s cheek. “Need to give you something to remember Ireland by, don’t I?” His fingers linger on Zayn’s skin for a second, before they drop back to his guitar. Or maybe Zayn’s imagining things. “Are you going to dance?”

“Not even for you, babe.” Zayn shakes his head, and Niall laughs.

“’m hurt, Zayn!” he protests, and Zayn sticks his tongue out before heading back to the bench where Harry is.

The music starts with a lively jig, and Zayn leans back in his seat to watch. His foot’s already tapping, like it always is, and he’s clapping along. It’s a good way to end his vacation, because music’s been such a part of this trip, somehow. Maybe that’s just Niall, and how he brings music into everything. Music and laughter and ease, no pressure to choose or push or be something he’s not. Just Zayn.

Niall’s beaming as he leans into the microphone to sing, looking like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. There aren’t stage lights or anything, but he doesn’t need them, with all the sunshine in his veins, it seems like. Or maybe it is just the lights, catching on his hair, the shadows of his jaw, the way the muscles of his arms flex and move as his fingers fly over the guitar, sure and strong.

He knows the whole band’s playing, that other people are watching, but Zayn can’t look away from Niall. There’s something about him, always has been; something about how easy he is in his own skin, that’s magnetic, irresistible. Zayn’s always known that, from the first time he met him, in that dingy New Haven bar where he’d laughed away Zayn’s apologies for Louis’s disruptiveness.

Like Niall knows Zayn’s watching, he looks over right after the crowd’s last cry of “Ain’t nothing like a Galway girl!” His shirt’s fallen down, gaping so the strong lines of his chest show through, and he’s got a lopsided grin on, almost wry, and he winks at Zayn, then takes a long sip of beer. His tongue flicks out to catch the last drops of liquid from the edges—and Zayn feels the hot, slow curl of arousal in his stomach.

He almost drops his beer, maybe would have if he wasn’t basically resting it on the table. It’s Niall. Niall, who’s one of his best friends, who’s—who’s _Niall_. He’s not supposed to think about Niall that way, that’s not who Niall is.

Except now that it started, he can’t not. Now he can’t not look at the ripple of muscles in his shoulders, the way his lips curve into a smile. He’s always known Niall was attractive, but it never hit him like this, like he’s thinking about what those strong, sure fingers would feel like on his body, what his lips might taste like. If he’d be loud in bed, swearing and laughing, or if he’d be quiet and intent, like he sometimes got.

Zayn shakes his head. No, this isn’t—he and Niall are friends. Niall’s given him this, this great trip, and he can’t—they’re not—

“You okay?” Harry asks, next to him. Zayn drags his eyes away from Niall to Harry. There. He can do that. He’s not—this isn’t a thing. It’s just temporary, the magic of music and Ireland and Niall, that’s all.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Okay.” Harry grins, dimples deep in his cheeks. “Want to dance?” It’s a lovely smile, Zayn knows, beaming and bright, even if it’s not Niall’s—but he can’t think that way, he isn’t.

He’s so busy concentrating on not, on figuring this out, on just working his way through the confusion, that he doesn’t notice when Harry’s got his hand in Zayn’s, or when he’s tugging him upwards. When he’s standing, and they’re in the crowd, and Zayn’s still thinking about Niall’s eyes and how they’re widening when they see him there, how Niall’s arms felt around him. This wasn’t supposed to happen, he doesn’t want this.

And he’s spinning and moving and it takes him a second to realize it’s not his head, it’s that Harry’s actually pushed him at a girl who’s smiling broadly at him, taking his stumbling as a charming Americanism, and she’s guiding him easily in the dance, and Zayn’s still thinking about Niall playing behind him, and wondering if he’s looking at him.

He’s still thinking about it when they’re winding down, when his latest partner bows out with a smile and a kiss on her cheek, and Joseph announces the last song. Zayn glances at the band—and Niall’s looking at him, his eyebrows raised in a question.

Zayn can’t. He needs to figure this out, needs to settle Niall back into the compartment where he’s been, that’s perfectly Niall-sized and where he and Zayn fit together. He looks away from Niall, and heads towards the door, where he can lean against the wall and light up a cigarette, see if that settles him.

It does, a little bit. Lets Zayn breathe, in the warmth of the night air, with music in the background and people laughing on the street. So, he’s attracted to Niall. That’s fine. He can deal with that. He can be friends with people he’s attracted to. It’s easy, it’s a thing people do. He just—he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want it to be complicated like this.

“Hey, Zayn?” Zayn’s head jerks, but it’s Harry’s slow drawl, not Niall.

“Yeah?” Harry brightens when he sees him, heads over to lean against the wall next to him.

“You okay? You disappeared.”

“Yeah. Fine.” Zayn stubs out his cigarette, for something to do with his hands. “Just needed some air.”

“You mean you aren’t posing for a photo shoot?” Harry retorts, lips curved into his smirk as he flicks his eyes down Zayn’s body. “Could’ve fooled me.”

And Harry’s just so easy. Easy in a way Niall was, until now, fit into his little box. Zayn knows what he wants from Harry, what Harry would want from him. He steals a look at Harry, who’s still got that look on, like he’d eat Zayn alive if he could.

“Yeah?” Zayn asks, pitching his voice lower. He turns, so his hand’s resting against the wall next to Harry’s head. He just wants simple. He wants an attraction he knows how to quantify, something that’s not Becca and isn’t anything else, either. “Doesn’t look like there are any cameras out here. Looks like it’s just us.”

“How convenient,” Harry replies, and there’s a furrow between his brows but his lips are full and pink and he’s been flirting with Zayn for weeks. “Zayn, what are—”

Zayn cuts him off with his lips, pressing into him. His lips are smooth and soft and taste like the vodka he’s been drinking, and Zayn gets a second of it before Harry’s pushing him away.

“The fuck, Zayn?” He doesn’t look angry, he looks—confused. Worried. Which isn’t the usual reaction to a kiss. Or maybe it is, it’s not like Zayn’s kissed anyone but Becca for years, what does he know? “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you?” Zayn tries to keep his voice even. Okay, apparently even this isn’t simple. Great. “Wasn’t that obvious?”

“Yeah, but—” He tugs at his hair. “Why?”

“Because you’ve been flirting with me for months?” This isn’t his fault, even if he’s made it awkward now, fuck. But Harry’s been leading him on, Harry’s been flirting, he knows it. Why can’t even this be easy? “I know you have been.”

“Well, yeah. But I didn’t—Zayn, that was for fun. I’m not what you want.”

There it is, his least favorite phrase. Apparently no one is, apparently he can’t find anyone who doesn’t know what he wants better than him. “You could be?” Zayn lets his other hand fall on Harry’s shoulder, presses closer. He could be. He could be simple, for a while, because Niall isn’t anymore and Zayn doesn’t know what to do with that, how to deal with it.

“No, I couldn’t, and you know it.”

Shit. Zayn makes to move away, glares down at his feet. This is why he doesn’t do this, he’s so fucking shit at it. This is why Becca dumped him, because he doesn’t know how to do this, doesn’t know how to pick people who want what he wants, not ever. “Sorry. Guess I misread things.”

“Fuck, Zayn.” Harry’s hands are on Zayn’s shoulders now, and one hand is tilting his chin back up. “No, you didn’t. I wouldn’t say no—like, if I just met you in a bar, I’d be sucking your cock in a bathroom, don’t worry. But I’m not, like, he’s my best friend, you know? I can’t do that to him.”

“What?” Zayn hadn’t said anything about Niall, how did Harry know? “Harry—”

“You guys better thank me, because I am being very good,” Harry informs him. “Like, superhumanly good. You are far too fit for your own good, but I am doing the right thing.” He leans in, his hand still on Zayn’s chin. “So, no. I’m not the one you should be kissing, Zayn.”

As if to punctuate it, he presses his lips to Zayn, once, dry, almost platonic, like Zayn might kiss Louis, if the thought didn’t gross him out.

“No.” Zayn almost jumps back, at the snap of Niall’s voice, but Harry’s hands had tightened reflexively on him, so he can’t, can only turn to the doorway.

Niall’s standing there, his lips set into a thin line, his fingers clenched around his guitar. His eyes are wide, and there’s no laughter in them, and Zayn just—that’s wrong. All the attraction aside, the swirl of emotion still sitting heavy in his mind, that’s wrong.

“Niall—” Harry starts.

“I just came to tell you I’m going home. You can come or not.” Niall’s talking quickly, sharply, like he only gets when he’s on edge, when something’s gotten through the shield of good-nature. “I’ll just—I’ll go now. Let you two finish up.” He spins on his heel, disappears back into the pub.

Zayn can’t read Harry’s look, but he yanks out of his hold nevertheless, and they both hurry after Niall.

He’s already at the car when they catch up to him, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Niall—”

“I’m tired, aren’t you? You need to be well rested for your flight, should start that now,” Niall interrupts him, and shuts the door behind him.

It’s an awkward ride back. Zayn’s not exactly sure how to quantify the awkwardness, exactly, because it’s not quiet—Niall’s chattering about the set, and Harry’s making a few comments, and it’s not like Zayn’s ever particularly loud—but he can feel the tension, the way Niall’s voice is a little too hearty and his laughter a little too loud.

And it’s only worse, because he can’t stop noticing things anymore. Can’t stop noticing his hands and his arms and the freckles on his shoulders. If he could not notice that, maybe he could figure out the right thing to say, to make this normal again—but every time he tries, he’s distracted by the line of his neck or the blue of his eyes, and whatever he was going to say subsides.

Harry disappears the instant they get back, ducking into his room with a quick “Night!” thrown over his shoulder. Zayn follows Niall upstairs. He should say something. He doesn’t know what—he kissed Harry, so what. What does Niall have to say about that?

Niall pauses next to the guestroom door, turns to look at Zayn as he catches up to him. He looks—drained, is the word Zayn can think of. He doesn’t know if he’s ever seen Niall look exhausted like this, and it hurts, something deep under everything else Zayn’s feeling.

“Zayn—” he starts. Zayn catches his breath, waits. It’s Niall, he’s the one who breaks these silences, who always manages to say the right thing.

But he just shakes his head. “Never mind,” he mutters, and Zayn can’t think of anything to say to stop him from leaving, so he does, watches Niall walk down to his room, and disappear inside.

Zayn throws himself down on the bed, takes out his phone to check his email. He just need to distract himself, and everything will settle. He’ll be fine, Harry won’t care, and Niall doesn’t hold grudges. This will roll off of him like everything else has. It must be weird to have two of your best friends kissing, Zayn imagines, but Niall doesn’t dwell on things, not like he does. He’ll be normal again. And so will Zayn. He’ll figure out how to get back to the dream of Ireland.

Zayn checks his email, then twitter, then Instagram—then he gets up. He can’t do this. Seeing Niall tense like that was wrong, and that mattered more than any inconvenient attraction Zayn might have, than any awkwardness Zayn might feel.

He slips his phone into his pocket, and goes to knock on Niall’s door.

It’s possible Niall’s asleep, he realizes right after, but he doesn’t get farther than that thought before there’s a muffled “Come in.”

Niall’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. He looks defeated, drained, and it’s still so utterly wrong. “Niall?” Zayn asks, stepping in the room. “Niall, I just—what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.” Niall’s reply is still muffled by his hands, but Zayn knows Niall, and he knows Niall would say that no matter what. “What do you want?”

Zayn closes the door behind him, then walks forward so he can push between Niall’s legs, can get close enough to slide his hand under Niall’s chin. He resolutely doesn’t think about his position at all, because this—this is more important. “Just want to make you smile, Niall,” he says, soft. “That okay?” It is. It’s all he wants, for Niall to smile again. “How can I do that?”

Niall lifts his head, Zayn’s hand still under his chin. He still looks—bleak. Like all the sunshine’s gone. “Just—don’t. Not with Haz.”

“What?”

Niall shakes his head, runs a hand through hair already mussed, presumably from him doing that a lot. “I love Harry, he’s like my brother, he’s the best. But—he’ll break your heart, Zayn.” Niall’s eyes are so very blue as he looks up at him, almost pleading. “He’s not a long haul sort of person, he won’t stick around, he never does. It’s not what he wants. And you—you deserve better than that. So don’t fall in love with him.”

Zayn blinks. That’s what Niall thought? “I’m not,” he replies, simply. Because he isn’t. He knows that much. “I know what Harry’d want, that’s clear. And anyway, he said no.”

“What?” Niall does draw back at that, his whole face twisting in confusion. “But I thought—”

“He said no. Said he couldn’t do that.” Zayn pauses, thinks back to Harry’s words. He hadn’t really thought about them, not then, had been too confused and then Niall had been there. “He said he couldn’t do that to you.” He tilts his head, looks down at Niall. “What’d he mean? Would you have a problem with that?”

“I—” Niall’s mouth opens and closes a few times, some sort of debate clearly playing over his face. Then, “Fuck it,” he mutters, and looks up, right into Zayn’s eyes. “Yes. I’d have a problem with it. Because I’ve spent the last month trying to tell you how I feel about you, and I’d have a problem with it if Harry got there first.”

Zayn jerks back, instinctively. He hadn’t—that hadn’t been what he expected. “What?”

“Fucking Christ, Zayn, you really are oblivious,” Niall doesn’t seem to have taken his reaction as offense, but still, he’s almost laughing as he shakes his head, something wry in it. “I wanted to make it all pretty for you, wanted to do it right—but I am so fucking gone for you, Zayn. And I was thinking—or, like, hoping—that you might give me a chance?” He smiles hopefully, and Zayn’s heart is beating out of his chest. He’d never even thought about this, never even considered it. A year ago, a month ago, Niall was Niall, and that was that. Just Niall, his best friend, all sunshine and comfort and ease. But now—Niall’s waiting patiently, everything in him open, out there for Zayn, and Zayn—Zayn doesn’t know what to say. Zayn doesn’t know what he wants to say, how he wants to respond.

“Niall, I…” he starts, and then the sound of a phone buzzing cuts him off. Zayn grabs at his pocket, thankful for the interruption. Maybe it’ll give him some time to gather himself, to figure out what he wants to say. He’ll just check who it is, then he can talk to Niall.

But then he sees the caller id, and his jaw drops. “It’s Becca,” he says, dumbfounded. He hasn’t heard anything from Becca for four months, had almost been ready to delete her from his phone—but here she is, calling him from thousands of miles away, for the first time in months. “I—I should get this.”

“Yeah. ‘course.” Niall nods, accepting, but Zayn can’t not see how his shoulders sag, how his voice goes flat.

But Zayn’s a coward, so he ducks out, back to his room, fumbling to answer the call as he does.

“Hey.”

“Hey, it’s Becca.” She sounds the same as she always did, the low throaty sensual voice that had hooked him in from the start.

“Yeah, I know, saw it.”

“Right, of course.” She pauses, and the silence is awkward, horribly awkward.

Zayn sighs. He doesn’t want to deal with this now, when he’s finally getting over it. “Becs, I’m in Ireland, this is costing a lot. What do you want?”

“I—” she laughs, almost incredulous. “I just wanted to talk to you, I think. I’ve missed talking to you. I miss you.”

“You miss me?” Zayn snorts. “Maybe you shouldn’t have dumped me, then.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have,” she agrees, and Zayn nearly drops his phone. That wasn’t what he was expecting. She’d been pretty firm in her dumping, that this was the last time. And it’s lasted, too; none of their other break ups lasted more than a week before one of them came back.

“What?” he demands. That’s the last thing he needs, when Niall’s back in his room, Niall and his open face and what he’d said, and the way he smiled. Everything’s rearranging, now, how Niall holds him and touches him and looks at him, how he’d taken Zayn to Ireland to get away from everything, how he’d shared this place he loves with him. It’s all taking on a new color. How he’d sung that song, about the boy with black hair and a gentle touch, how he’d sounded like he’d ached during it.

“I—I’ve been thinking,” she admits. For a second, he’s almost surprised it’s her voice, not Niall’s. “I know what I said—and fuck, I wish we could do this in person, but if you’re abroad—but like, maybe you didn’t know what you wanted, and I still stick by that, but maybe—maybe I didn’t know either?” He can hear her long breath, knows how she’ll be fiddling with the ends of her long hair now, like she does when she’s nervous. “I’ve missed you. I thought I wanted something more, something bigger, but—maybe I didn’t know what I was giving up.” Zayn runs his hand through his hair. Why tonight? Why did all of this have to happen now? “I mean, we can talk when you get back, obviously, but—I just—I wanted to talk to you.”

This time it’s Zayn who’s silent. He’d never expected this. Never expected he might have a second chance with Becca, with his bright overwhelming Becca with her blazing hair and the fireworks she brought with her. But…now that he thinks of it, the fireworks have dimmed. It’s been months, and he’s fine. He is. He’s been fine without the fireworks, without the ups and downs of their clashing moods. He doesn’t want that.

He doesn’t want that. For the first time in what feels like ages, Zayn knows something about what he wants. He doesn’t want those girls in a bar, offering a quick night in a foreign country. He doesn’t want Harry and the friendly casualness he’d give. He doesn’t want Becca, and lightning strike of their romance. He wants the soft, certain surety of the way Niall had looked at him. He wants Niall’s laughter, how he always makes Zayn smile. He wants Niall’s arms wrapped around him when they slept and how he made sure his mom cooked turkey bacon for Zayn. That’s what he wants.

“I don’t think it’ll happen, Becs,” he says softly, because he’d loved her once. “Sorry, but—I think maybe you were right. We weren’t what we wanted.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, and heaves a sigh. “No, I know. I just—do you think we could be friends? I do miss talking to you.”

“Maybe,” he allows. “I’ll text when I get back, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Another beat of silence, then, “I should let you go. Sorry about this.”

“Think it was good, actually.” Zayn swallows, because this feels final. This feels like a choice. “Bye, Becca.”

“Bye Zayn.”

Then she’s gone.

Zayn closes his phone, looks at it for a second, waits for the certainty to fade, for him to go back to the vague fog that he’s been drifting in for months. But it’s not there. There’s just Niall, and how he’d let Zayn go answer the phone.

He drops his phone onto the bed, then turns to walk back to Niall’s room.

Niall’s sprawled back on the bed when he walks in without knocking, but he sits up when Zayn enters. “So?” he asks, smiling. It’s not even a fake smile, Zayn knows, can see. “Getting back together, then?”

Zayn blinks, closes the door behind him. But the certainty is still there, with Niall sitting on the bed, ready to be happy for Zayn no matter what. Niall, who Zayn just wants to make smile and protect and taste and maybe he hadn’t noticed the depth of all this before, but he doesn’t want the ache in Niall’s voice when he sings songs of love anymore.

He doesn’t speak. Instead, he crosses the room, slides a hand behind Niall’s head, and tilts his head up to kiss him.

Niall makes a surprised sound against Zayn’s lips, but the surprise only lasts half a second of Zayn’s lips against his before he grabs at Zayn’s shoulders as he kisses his him back. He tastes like whiskey and sugar and he just feels like Niall, not demanding but firm and irresistible.

“Zayn?” Niall murmurs, pulling away. He’s flushed already, and his eyes are wide. Zayn wants to kiss the flush from his cheeks. He wants to trace his freckles with his tongue, wants to see how far down the red goes. He wants everything.

“No.” Zayn rests his weight on the knee he’s got planted on the bed, but he keeps his hand on Niall’s neck, where he can play with the soft strands of hair there. “No. I’m not giving you a chance.”

He can see Niall’s Adam’s apple bob, can feels his fingers tighten on Zayn’s shoulder. “Kind of mixed signals, then.” His voice is rough and hoarse, his accent thick.

“It’s not a chance,” Zayn clarifies. “I’m sure.”

Niall’s smile is slow growing, incredulous, and he lets go of Zayn’s shoulder to trace a finger down Zayn’s cheek, his touch so soft Zayn can barely feel it. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Because he can, Zayn leans down to peck Niall on the lips first, then the tip of his nose. “I mean, if you…”

“Fuck, come here.” Niall’s hand tightens, brings him back down to kiss him again, harder this time, Zayn licking at Niall’s lips until he opens his mouth and Zayn can explore his mouth properly. It’s not like kissing Becca, both because he can feel the rasp of Niall’s stubble and because it’s Niall, and it’s not an overwhelming rush it’s just—Niall. Just Niall, and how Zayn wants to kiss him forever, even as his hands run down Zayn’s back, over his arms, end up in his hair, pulling him in.

Zayn goes willingly, pushing closer to Niall until Niall’s on his back, Zayn hovering over him. Niall groans into Zayn’s mouth when he settles over him, and Zayn can feel him getting hard, his hips rolling into Zayn’s enough that he’s making sound back.

“D’you…” Niall trails off, and Zayn pulls back a little to look at him. He’s got a smile in his eyes still, and on his face, and Zayn watches as he licks his lips. How had he never known he wanted this? “What do you want to do?” he asks, the words coming out in a rush.

Zayn raises his eyebrows. “Think that’s pretty clear.”

“Yeah, but, specifically,” Niall clarifies.

It gets a laugh out of Zayn, because of course it would. Of course Niall can always make him smile. “You got a plan for this too?” he teases, and presses his lips onto Niall’s chin, his neck. “An itinerary for us?”

Niall snorts, then he’s rolling them, so Zayn’s on his back and Niall straddling his thighs. “Fuck, Zayn,” he retorts, “The things I’ve thought about doing to you.”

“Yeah?” Zayn asks, delightedly. How had he never known? “Thoughts, not plans?”

“Didn’t think it would ever get to plans,” Niall explains with a shrug. His fingers are inching under Zayn’s shirt, spreading out over his stomach in a wave of heat.

Zayn has to kiss him for that, for the matter-of-factness of it. “Well, start planning,” He murmurs. “What’s first?”

Niall swallows, and his gaze scrapes down Zayn’s body. “Um, usually you’re a lot more naked, at least.”

“Only if you are too.” Niall nods, but he keeps his gaze on Zayn as he sits up enough to pull his shirt off, and Zayn can see them widen as he goes to the button of his jeans. “You okay there, Niall?”

“Yeah, just, never really thought I’d be here.” Niall chuckles, more awkward than not. “Not entirely sure this isn’t a dream, to be honest.”

“How long have you wanted this?” Zayn asks, because that’s the second time Niall’s said something like that. While he’s at it, though, he wants to get Niall naked too, because he wants to see that. So he tugs at his Henley until it’s over his head, his fingers sliding up Niall’s leanly muscled torso.

When Niall emerges, he’s bright red. “Two years? Give or take?”

Zayn pauses, his hands still on Niall’s shoulders. “I met you two years ago.”

“Yeah.” Niall’s fingers drum over Zayn’s thigh, like he wants a guitar. “Not a coincidence.”

“Niall—”

“I’m not your friend just to get in your pants,” Niall hurries on, interrupting Zayn. “Like, I wanted it, because you’re—fuck, you’re you, and of course I did—but you were with Becca and that was fine, I just thought, now that you were single…but if that creeps you out too much, we can—”

“Niall,” Zayn says again, and he has to kiss him to cut him off, has to swallow down two years worth of fear and him being oblivious and how hadn’t he noticed that? Had Niall always looked at him like that?

But that’s not for now, that’s for later. Now’s for the feel of Niall’s lips on his, for their skin rubbing against each other. “So, two years. What’ve you thought of doing to me?” He slides his palms over Niall’s shoulders, down his back, enjoying how his muscles move as Zayn touches him. “You ever jerked off to me?”

“Yeah,” Niall admits, shamelessly. He’s got his hands on Zayn now, pushing him back onto the bed so he can trace his tattoos with a gentle hand, like he’d touch his guitar. Zayn hisses, as Niall’s fingers circle his nipples. “Tried not to, but sometimes—fuck, Malik. You know how you look.”

Zayn does, but he also knows how Niall looks like now, his blue eyes dark, his hair messy from Zayn’s hands, an incredulous smile on his lips. The flush’s gone down his chest, turning pale skin red, and he’s still got his jeans on but the bulge in them’s gotten more obvious. “Thought about fucking me?” he asks, because yes. That’s what he wants.

Niall’s breath hitches, and he laughs. “Um, yeah. Plenty.”

“Okay then.” Zayn finishes unbuttoning his jeans, and lifts his hips so he can start wriggling them off, even if Niall’s sort of in the way. He pats at Niall’s hip to move him, so he can at least get naked, and Niall goes a little vaguely.

“Really?” he asks, though he’s not looking away from where Zayn’s got his jeans on the floor, and is pulling down his boxers. “We don’t have to. Just ‘cause I’ve been—”

“C’mere.” Zayn’s finally naked, and he scoots up properly onto the bed, reaching out for Niall. “I want you, babe. I want this.”

“Fuck.” Niall actually grabs at his arm, pinches himself, which is flattering but also not exactly getting Zayn what he wants.

“We can do that if you’re into it,” he tells Niall.

“Sorry.” Niall runs a hand back through his hair, then seems to jolt back to himself. “Bloody hell.”

He strips off his own jeans and boxers, and Zayn has a mouthwatering second of looking at him before he’s back on the bed, climbing between Zayn’s legs to kiss him again.

It’s even better naked, when he can feel Niall’s erection against his leg, can feel all of Niall’s skin against his own. Niall’s lips trail down from his lips to his neck, down to his collarbone, and Zayn swears and arches when his teeth dig in.

Niall’s hand’s somehow between them, wrapped around Zayn’s cock so he’s fucking helplessly into it as Niall sucks and nips at his skin, concentrated like he really has been planning this for two years, and Zayn groans wordlessly because he wants more.

“Niall, c’mon, please,” he moans, and he doesn’t care that he’s begging. It’s Niall.

“Yeah, fuck, yeah,” Niall mutters, and he’s trailing kisses down Zayn’s chest, over his nipples, down to his happy trail, like he wants to taste everything.

“Do you…”

“Think I’m not prepared?” Niall laughs, and presses a kiss to Zayn’s thigh before he reaches over him to his bedside table. “Like, I didn’t really think—but I’d hoped, maybe.”

Zayn can’t help his grin back. “Such a boy scout, aren’t you?”

“Just for the important things.”

Niall drops the condom and lube on the bed, then pours a good amount over his fingers before he looks up at Zayn. “Done this in a while?”

“No,” Zayn admits, “I mean, I’ve been with Becca…”

Niall nods, and then his mouth is around Zayn and Zayn gasps and has to use all his willpower not to fuck into Niall’s mouth. He can’t quite keep his hand out of Niall’s hair, but Niall doesn’t say anything about it, just keeps his mouth around Zayn, eases his legs apart so when his first finger slides in Zayn barely notices the intrusion, just the pleasure of it.

He opens Zayn up gently, patiently, until Zayn’s swearing at him to hurry up. “But I like it here,” Niall counters, pulling off Zayn’s cock. Zayn could almost come from the sight of him, his lips swollen and wet, his eyes dancing, his fingers filling Zayn until he’s so close. “Got plenty to do.”

“Just fuck me already,” Zayn snaps, and Niall laughs again, kisses at Zayn’s stomach once before he kisses him properly again, Zayn chasing the taste of himself. “Thought that’s what you wanted.”

“More than anything,” he swears, and Zayn can almost believe that. “You good?”

“Yes,” Zayn replies, maybe a little shortly.

Niall chuckles, but then he’s rolling on the condom and lifting Zayn’s legs so he can wrap them around his waist, and he’s pushing in. Zayn tenses as his cock nudges past his rim, can’t help it—and Niall freezes. “Too fast?”

“Just keep going,” Zayn mutters. He knows it’ll get better, he just hates this part.

“I’m good. Tell me when it’s good for you.”

“You’re sweet,” Zayn tells him, because he is, but, “But just get the fuck in me.”

Niall’s laugh bursts out of him, and then he’s pushing past and the hurt’s swallowed by how full Zayn feels, how Niall’s arms are braced beside his head and Zayn can see the muscles work in them.

“Fucking hell, Zayn, bloody fucking hell, you feel so good.” Niall’s voice is almost awed, definitely hot and rough, his accent thick. “Can I—”

“Please,” Zayn groans. Niall seems to get with the program, because he starts thrusting into Zayn, as Zayn’s hips rise up to meet him. He hasn’t done this in a while, and more than that he’s never done this with Niall, and it’s not like it was with Becca, or with anyone. Niall’s swearing lowly the whole time, almost unintelligible except for the want and awe in his voice, and he keeps his eyes on Zayn, even as Zayn can see his gaze start to cloud, as he starts to thrust faster, chasing his orgasm.

Zayn wraps a hand around himself, jerking himself off to Niall’s rhythm, and he can feel his own orgasm coming. He cants his hips, and—“Fuck,” he moans, as Niall’s cock brushes his prostate, his back arching off the bed.

“Like that?” Niall asks, pretty rhetorically Zayn thinks, and Niall laughs when Zayn does his best to give him a ‘duh’ look. He thrusts against it again, and leans in to kiss Zayn, long and hot and frantic, and Zayn’s so close he’s panting into Niall’s mouth when Niall comes, expletives and Zayn’s name on his lips and his hips thrusting frantically into Zayn.

Zayn can’t wait, doesn’t want to, as Niall rides it out; he keeps jerking himself off, his eyes on Niall and how his face is slack with pleasure, his mouth falling open, his whole face red. He doesn’t think Niall’s come down completely when he comes too, clenching around Niall’s softening cock and come spurting over his hand, his breath loud and hoarse.

He falls back onto the bed, unwrapping his legs from Niall, as Niall falls on top of him.

“Fuck,” Niall says roughly. “Could almost come again, just seeing you.”

Zayn manages enough energy for a smile. “We can try that.”

Niall snorts, and pulls out of Zayn slowly, making a face as the lube squelches. “Not now. Pretty tired.”

“Same.” Zayn stays on the bed as Niall rolls off the condom, then goes to the door. “Niall?”

“Getting a washcloth,” Niall explains.

“You’re naked—your mum, and Harry—”

Niall glances down at himself. “Me mum’s downstairs, she won’t see. And pretty sure Harry heard what just happened.” He grins, like he’s happy about that, and slips out the door.

Zayn leans back against the headboard, looks up at the stars Niall put there years ago. Two years, Niall had said. Two years. But it had been during sex, and Zayn knew better than to count anything said then. Except it was Niall too, and Niall didn’t lie, didn’t beat around the bush.

Niall comes back with a warm washcloth, and tosses it to Zayn, who uses it to mop the come off his stomach and hand, before he tosses it in the general direction of the hamper. Niall, who’d been watching Zayn pretty intently, rolls his eyes, gets up to put it into the hamper properly, then lies back down next to Zayn. It’s instinct, somehow, to curl into him, to let him wrap his arms around Zayn and pull him back into his chest.

“We should probably talk about this,” Niall murmurs into Zayn’s ear. Zayn knows they should. He knows that he made a choice, but Niall doesn’t know any of that.

But he’s also comfortable, and has the warmth and ease Niall brings wrapped around him, and it’s been a long day. “In the morning,” he tells Niall, and pulls Niall’s hand to his chest so they can sleep.

\---

Zayn wakes up slowly, to sunlight on his face and a warm breath on his neck. It’s not even disorientation that strikes him—it just feels right, the bed feeling full and another body in it, another body he recognizes. He could wake up this way again, he thinks. Could wake up this way forever.

Niall’s breath is warm, but not slow like he’d be if he was asleep; Zayn yawns, and rolls over, so he can look at Niall.

Niall is awake, and he’s smiling at Zayn, not his sunshine bright smile, but the soft, incredulous one he had when Zayn had kissed him last night, with the awe in it.

“Morning,” Zayn yawns again. He wonders if Niall would be up for falling back to sleep. Or for making him coffee.

“I saw you first, you know.”

“Hm?”

“I saw you, before Becca.” Oh, apparently they’re talking now. Zayn should probably be awake for that. He blinks, tries to focus; sure enough, the smile’s lapsed into something more solemn, more worried. “I was just finished playing, and you were trying to listen but Louis knocked over the glass, and you had to pass in front of me to get to the bathrooms, and I couldn’t believe my luck, that I’d have a chance to approach the gorgeous guy I’d been eying all set.”

“You did talk to me,” Zayn points out. “On my way back.”

“I know. Had all these plans, was gonna let you go, then go buy you a drink and bring it to your table.” Niall’s a little flushed, but he’s matter of fact, how he tells the story. “But you bumped into Becca on the way back. Then you talked to her all night, went home with her.”

Zayn remembers that, of course. Remembers bumping into Becca, how they’d laughed at their mutual clumsiness, how it had struck like a lightning bolt, the way she’d eyed him and decided then and there she wanted him, and he’d wanted her too. And he remembers Niall, though he remembers him more from the next night, when he’d gone back to the bar with Louis, and seen the cute musician behind the bar, had stopped to chat with him. Had never stopped chatting with him, somehow.

“Since then?” Zayn asks, dry-mouthed. He remembers thinking, that first night, that Niall might have been flirting, but then there’d been Becca and he’d never thought past it. Then the cute musician had become Niall, and he’d crossed into a territory all his own.

“Yeah. Doesn’t matter, really.” Niall shrugs, shakes his head. “Not that—I mean, I wasn’t waiting, or anything.”

“Hm?”

Niall’s very serious now, intent even. “I wasn’t sitting around waiting for you and Becca to break up, or for me to have a chance. Even this summer, like, that wasn’t the point. I mean, I wanted to, but it wasn’t the point. I’d have been happy being your friend forever if you didn’t want—this.”

“That…how?” He shakes his head to clear it, because the past two years is taking on a different hue now, and he just aches for Niall, for every time he touched him or teased him or cuddled with him. “I’m sorry, for—for anything I did.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Niall pokes at Zayn’s stomach. “Wasn’t like you were torturing me on purpose. And I could have left if I’d wanted to. I just didn’t want to.”

“Why not?” Zayn can’t imagine that. He knows he wouldn’t have lasted that long, wouldn’t have been able to stay. He hadn’t made it six hours of realizing he was attracted to Niall before he’d done something reckless and probably stupid.

Niall snorts. “’cause it was better to be your friend? No—‘cause it was enough to be your friend. Because you’re the most amazing person I know? Because you’re brilliant and gorgeous and you touch me like—fuck, that would’ve been enough forever.”

Zayn can’t help looking down, away from the sincerity in Niall’s gaze. It’s nothing Niall hasn’t said before, really, but he’d never heard the emotion behind it. “But why not earlier this summer?” he insists, to divert from that. “You know I’ve been over Becca. And like, the Harry thing’s never been a, like, thing.”

Now Niall does blush, a little. “I’ve been trying,” he admits, laughing wryly. “But I wanted to make it nice, to impress you. Find a good moment, like. Would’ve done it in Dublin, but you were smashed.”

“And—fuck, I dragged you into bed with me.” How could he have been so stupid. “That’s…you should’ve told me when I was out of line.”

“Zayn.” Niall’s hand’s at his chin, forcing him up, and when he does look at him Niall’s smiling, and Zayn’s never been able to resist that smile. “You weren’t. If anything, I was, ‘cause I was sort of taking advantage. I wasn’t sure I’d get another chance to sleep with you like that.”

“But—wait.” Something occurs to Zayn then, and he almost forgets to feel bad. “You took a really long shower after that. Were you jerking off?”

Niall’s flush goes down to his chest, but, “Yeah,” he admits immediately, shamelessly. “That’s what happens when the boy you’re in love with spent the night cuddling with you and you wake up to your face.”

Zayn’s ready to tease—but the words catch up to him, even with his morning brain, and everything fizzes out for a second. “In love?” Niall hadn’t said that before, he knew. He would have noticed.

“Fuck.” Niall swears again, and glances away, down to where his hands had started twisting in the blanket. “I hadn’t meant—that one I really was going to do nice, after a while. Swear. Fuck. You don’t have to say it back or anything. But, yeah.”

Zayn gulps down air. He’s so not caffeinated for this. For Niall, his sunshine Niall who makes him happier than anyone and easier than anyone, to tell him that, when Zayn’s still reeling with last night, with everything else that’s come.

“I—I don’t think I can say it back?” he says, slowly. He wishes he could, god, does he, but he doesn’t want to say it too soon. He doesn’t want to hurt Niall more than he already did. He can’t be _sure_. “Not yet? I’m sorry, I just, I’m not—”

“’s okay,” Niall pokes his at both his nipples, then his stomach, and Zayn can’t help his smile at that, even through everything. “Your pace is good. This is enough for now.”

He leans in, but hesitates an inch from Zayn’s lips, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed. It’s Zayn who closes the distance, who kisses him like a promise, like a ‘I’ll try’ and a ‘I’m sorry’ and a ‘maybe soon.’

“Ew, morning breath.” Niall wrinkles his nose as he pulls back. “Did you brush your teeth last night?”

“Sorry, I was a little distracted.” Zayn retorts, chuckling. Even if he agrees.

“Right.” Niall grins, clearly satisfied. “Well then. Go brush your teeth. And then we can do that again.”

\---

They make it downstairs half an hour later, because Niall’s stomach apparently wins out even over Zayn being naked, and Zayn couldn’t exactly say he wasn’t starting to need coffee. Still, it’s a struggle to get dressed when neither of them seem to be able to not touch, when whenever he looks at Niall Niall’s watching him with that awed, hot gaze and Zayn knows he’s similar. So by the time they get downstairs, Maura’s already gone, and Harry’s munching on some toast at the table in just his boxers, looking at his phone.

“There more of that?” Niall asks, and Harry jumps, looks up, his eyes widening.

“Not really, but you can have this. Nialler—”

“’s okay.” Niall tells him, and ruffles his hair on his way to the fridge. “I’m not mad.”

“Thank god.” Harry groans, and takes another bite of his toast. He talks around it as he says, “I was worried I’d have to do something drastic, and I wasn’t sure how much more I could get than a tattoo. An interpretive dance?”

“Thank fuck you didn’t,” Zayn mutters. He needs coffee. There should be coffee. “’s there…”

“Here.” Harry pushes his mug over at Zayn, and Zayn takes it thankfully, inhaling the fumes.

“You’re my favorite,” he mutters, taking a sip. Kissing Niall and emotional talks are great, but they don’t wake him up like this.

“Oh am I? Really?” Harry drawls, waggling his eyebrows. “Still?”

“Hm?”

“Well, I’m sure I could get you to make those noises too, but it seems like someone else is doing it.”

Zayn considers being embarrassed, but he’s not awake enough yet. “You gave me coffee. That’s almost as good.”

“Yeah? Coffee gets those noises too?” Zayn sips again, and he’s pretty sure his groan is the same as last night. “Wonder what we could do with that.”

An arm’s suddenly around Zayn’s waist, the fingers digging into his shirt. “No,” Niall tells Harry sternly. He takes the coffee away from Zayn, which gets a whine from Zayn. That’s mean. But then Niall replaces it with another mug, that also has coffee in it, so maybe he isn’t so mean. “No flirting with my boyfriend, Haz.”

Zayn barely registers the boyfriend in the hugeness of the grin that’s spread over Harry’s face. “It’s like that, then?”

“Yeah.” Zayn swallows the coffee, lets himself lean into Niall, watch Niall beaming at him. “It’s like that.”

“Sick!” Harry leaps to his feet, then Zayn’s getting a faceful of Harry’s chest as they’re all engulfed in a group hug. “I was gonna lock you in a closet next, if Niall didn’t say anything soon. Well done, bro!” He lets go to hold up his hand, and Niall laughs and high-fives it. “And you.” Harry turns to Zayn, his eyes narrowing in a glare that might have looked intimidating if he hadn’t been wearing bright yellow boxers with smiley faces on them. “No hurting my friend. Not even by kissing me.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Zayn agrees, and brushes his lips over Niall’s cheek before going to the counter to sit down. “Now is there breakfast?”

“Just for you,” Niall tells him, and pulls some turkey bacon out of the fridge.

“That is favoritism!” Harry protests, around another mouthful of toast.

“Yeah, it is,” Niall agrees, and glances over his shoulder to grin at Zayn. “We should do dinner, too.”

“You asking me out?” Zayn teases back. “Was that a proper date proposal I heard?”

“It was.” Niall glances around, sighs. “I suppose this place is better than nowhere. Even if that one had to hear.”

“Hey, I think I was an integral part to this whole thing,” Harry protests. Zayn ignores him.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

\---

Dinner isn’t anything different, not really. Or maybe it is, but only because Zayn knows the other level now, because now he looks at Niall over candlelight in the restaurant Niall brought him too, looks at Niall in his button up and slacks with his hair done nicely, and doesn’t think that he looks nice, but thinks about unbuttoning his shirt later, stripping him out of it. Because now he can see how Niall looks at him, and looks away sometimes at the emotion there.

But it’s also easy and casual and them too, and they talk over dinner about nothing at all, and Niall finishes off Zayn’s fish and gives him half his chocolate lava cake. It’s not dramatic or nerve-wracking or tiring, and Zayn thinks he could do this for a long time, eating dinner with Niall, watching Niall burst into guffaws at one of his jokes.

After, they wander, down to the Long Walk, past the postcard-perfect houses, down to the grass overlooking the beach. Zayn slips his hand into Niall’s, and that’s easy too, like they’ve been doing it for years. Which they have, he supposes. He just didn’t know he wanted it like this.

Niall squeezes his palm as they look out over the water, and it’s like standing on the cliffs again, feeling Niall there ready to anchor him to solid ground. “Wish I had my guitar,” he muses.

“You always wish you had your guitar.”

“Yeah, but. Could properly serenade you.”

Zayn laughs. “Don’t need you singing sad songs to me, babe.”

“But they aren’t sad!” Niall protests. He leans his head against Zayn’s shoulder, looking out over the water that eventually leads back home. “Not anymore.” He starts to hum, and Zayn can feel it in all the parts of him that are pressed against Niall, can feel it settling in his bones, before Niall starts to sing, soft and sure, “Black is the color of my true love’s hair…”

\---

“I don’t see why I needed to come,” Louis complains, his foot tapping against the tile floor of the terminal. “He could have just taken the train up to New Haven.”

“I wanted to meet him,” Zayn says, for what had to be the thousandth time. He scans the arrivals gate, then looks back at the board. The 1:53 Aer Lingus flight’s arrived, it says, like it had ten minutes ago. He should be getting here soon.

“You’re being stupid, you know.” Louis nudges him with his hip, harder than he had to. “He’s not going to have rethought things in the past three weeks.”

Zayn shrugs. He knows that, he does. It’s not like they haven’t been texting and calling—though he thinks neither of them got up the nerve to suggest Skype sex, not with this thing so new between them still. He would have, he thinks, but he doesn’t know, yet. Doesn’t know Niall’s limits, doesn’t know how he likes to be touched. Doesn’t know how to turn him on, how to make it good.

But he does know that Niall hasn’t rethought anything. He hasn’t said anything otherwise, anyway, and it’s Niall, he would.

He glares at the sliding glass doors to the terminal anyway. It’s not Niall he’s worried about, he doesn’t say. He wants Niall, he knows he does—that last day in Ireland had been magical, those nights spent next to Niall, waking up to Niall’s smile, giggling as they fell asleep together. But that had been Ireland.

Then there had been bidding Niall goodbye with a squeeze of his hand and a hug in Dublin, and the flight home, which had been a thousand times worse without Niall there to assure him, to ground him. And then he’d been back in the US, at home, far away from the foreign magic of Ireland and how he’d felt there. It had been easy, to fall back into his old habits, feeding the cats and working to catch up on all the thesis work he’d neglected and hanging out with Louis. To look at his apartment, and all the holes in it from the things Becca had left behind, and wonder how he’d feel with Niall there.

He thinks he knows. He’d known when he’d gotten on the plane in Dublin and there’d been a snapchat waiting for him, an image of Niall giving him a thumbs up with ‘it’ll be fine!’ captioned across it that made him breathe a little easier. But that’d been Ireland. And this was reality.

“After all, looking back on the past two years, it’s obvious how gone he was for you,” Louis’s still talking. Zayn drums his fingers over his thigh. “You really didn’t know?”

“Neither did you,” Zayn retorts. Louis’s face had been comical when he’d told him, his jaw dropping, his eyes wide. “So lay off.”

“I suspected,” Louis informs him loftily. “It’s your cheekbones, they’re irresistible. Should have known.”

“You did not suspect.”

“Fine, no, but I should have. And I’m still sure he wouldn’t mind taking the train. He didn’t ask you to come.”

“Wanted to surprise him,” Zayn mutters. No, Niall hadn’t asked. Niall hadn’t seemed to treat this any differently than last year when he went to Ireland for a few weeks, when he’d seen Zayn the next day at Anna Liffey’s. He didn’t seem nervous at all, didn’t seem to doubt them—but Zayn hadn’t actually seen him, so what did he know. Maybe he’d been talking Harry’s ear off about it. Or not Harry’s, because Harry was back in London apparently, helping Liam through his big crisis. But Sean or someone.

“This is certainly more effort than you ever put in for Becca,” Louis agrees. He looks at the arrivals board again. “What’s keeping him?”

“Don’t—”

Zayn cuts off, because the doors slide open, and there’s Niall.

It hits Zayn all at once, after a month without him. Bright hair and bright eyes and his tank top gaping open so Zayn can see the hair at his chest and the huge smile exploding over his face when he catches sight of Zayn.

“The fuck, Zayn!” he calls, loud enough people look, but Zayn doesn’t care. Niall’s barreled into Zayn, his arms wrapped tight around his waist, his face smushed into Zayn’s neck. Zayn inhales, and it smells like Niall, it feels like Niall, like he’s breathing easy, like he wants to stay here forever.

“What are you doing here?” Niall demands, pulling out of the hug enough to look at Zayn. “Thought I was going to have to dig you out of your nest.”

“Wanted to surprise you.” Zayn can feel himself blushing, but he thinks he hides it well.

“You did.” Niall pauses, and Zayn can feel him tense, feel his fingers tighten. “Um, this is a good surprise, right? Not a wanting to break bad news here?”

“No.” Zayn’s almost surprised by the certainty in his voice, but it’s there, and it’s there in his heart and in Niall’s tentative smile. “Definitely a good surprise.” Because he can, because this is how you’re supposed to do reunions, because it’s been a month since he last touched him, Zayn lets go Niall’s shoulders to cup the back of his head, bring him in for a kiss.

Niall sighs happily against his lips, the tension disappearing as he pushes closer to Zayn. A month’s too long, Zayn thinks vaguely, his other hand settling on Niall’s hip, brushing against his skin where his shirt’s rode up.

“Ahem.” Louis clears his throat loudly enough to break through the haze of Niall’s kiss. “Not to be a buzzkill, but there’s a perfectly nice bathroom nearby if you need to fuck.”

“Lou!” Niall lets go of Zayn, bounds at Louis to hug him too. “You get dragged down too?”

“Yeah, this one wanted company surprising his boyfriend or something,” Louis drawls point his thumb at Zayn. “Such a romantic, him.”

“Well, my boyfriend took me to Ireland to ask me out,” Zayn points out. Niall flushes as he says ‘boyfriend.’ It’s adorable. “Had to make it up to him somehow.”

“I can think of a few ways,” Niall puts in, waggling his eyebrows. Zayn laughs, and wraps his arm around Niall’s waist. Niall freezes again, then seems to remember he’s allowed to touch back now, because he throws his arm around Zayn’s shoulders.

“When we get home,” he whispers in Niall’s ear, “Haven’t gotten near my fill of you yet.”

Niall’s whole body’s thrumming, and Zayn can’t help his satisfied grin. Yeah. He likes it here, with Niall next to him, a smile on his face.

“Me neither,” Niall murmurs back. He tugs, so Zayn’s facing him. He hasn’t even twitched for his guitar yet, which Zayn’s pretty impressed by. “Got to show you how much I missed you.”

“Not while I’m there, please,” Louis inserts. Both of them ignore him.

“Missed you too.” Zayn bites his lip, but he has to say it. “Not just, like, the sex. All of it. Just—you.”

Niall shakes his head, almost laughing, his cheeks red. “Fuck, Zayn. Love you.”

Zayn can feel the words, on the tip of his tongue. Soon, he thinks. Soon. When he’s ready. When he’s figured it out. “Even in America?” he asks, instead. He’s only half-teasing, he thinks.

“Wherever you are,” Niall promises. “’s your song, yeah? Doesn’t matter what ground you’re on.”

“You too.” Zayn leans down again for another kiss, gentle this time, just to feel Niall smile into it.

“Good.” Niall brushes his nose over Zayn’s skin, like he’s savoring. “Now, I love you, but my guitar’s going around and I have to make sure they didn’t fuck her up.”

“Glad to know you’ve got your priorities straight,” Zayn chuckles, letting him go. Niall laughs back, then heads towards the baggage carousel, Louis following him after a speaking look at Zayn that says clearly he’s never going to stop teasing him for being a sap.

Zayn holds back, watching them. Watching Niall. This, he thinks, thinking of Niall laughing back at him, the knowledge of his family close by, of the work he wants waiting for him back in his office. Of his cats and home. Of the memory of Ireland, lingering in Niall’s touch, in the song he can almost hear. This is what he wants.

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Questions? Want to discuss? Comment or come chat on [ tumblr!](http://ridiculouslittleidiots.tumblr.com/)


End file.
